I  As 


He  passed  by  with   Miss  Jefferys 
on  his  arm. — Page  24 

Frontispiece 


The  Records 

Being  Truthful  Accounts,  Grave  and  Gay, 
of  the  Doings  of  Certain  Real  People 

Hereinafter  set  down  for  the  Edification  of  the  Wise  and 

the  Foolish,  and  the  Amusement  of  the  Tired 

and  the  Unhappy 


CYRUS  TOWN  SEND  BRADY 

Author  »f  "  The  Corner  in  Coffee,"    "  The  Southerners,"    "A  Doctor 

«/  Philosophy,"  "A  Little  Traitor  to  the  South"  "Sir 

Henry  Morgan,   Buccaneer,''  etc.,  etc. 


Illustrations  by 
LOUIS  D.   ARATA 


G.  W.   DILLINGHAM    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT,  1904,  BY 
G.  W.  DILLINGHAM  COMPANY 


ENTERED  AT  STATIONERS'  HALL 


Tht  Recordt 


Issued  October, 


2229152 


ACKNO  WLEDGMENT 

With  one  exception  these  stories  have  already  seen  the  light 
in  the  different  magazines  of  the  country  and  are  here  re- 
printed by  the  gracious  permission  of  The  Associated  Sunday 
Magazines,  Century,  Cosmopolitan,  Delineator,  Illustrated 
Sporting  News,  Lippincott* s,  New  York  Herald,  Scribner's, 
Smart  Set,  St.  Nicholas,  and  the  Twentieth  Century  Home. 


PREFACE 

It  is  said  that  everybody  has  at  least  one  good  story 
in  him.  Perhaps  by  that  is  meant  that  every  human 
life  however  obscure  and  humble,  possesses  elements 
of  tragedy,  comedy,  and  mystery ;  and  if  it  could  be 
described  clearly  and  properly  would  in  itself  be 
a  romance  which  would  meet  the  requirements  of 
that  famous  dictum,  "  Will  it  make  you  laugh  ? 
Will  it  make  you  cry  ?  Will  it  make  you  wonder  ?  " 

I  have  not  attempted  anything  so  ambitious  as  the 
setting  forth  of  a  single  human  life  in  this  book — 
rather  I  have  tried  to  put  the  reader  in  communi- 
cation with  many  lives.  Acting  on  the  theory  that 
where  there  was  a  certain  long  story  there  was  also 
a  possible  short  one,  I  have  made  it  my  business — 
and  it  has  also  been  my  pleasure ! — when  I  could 
do  so  with  propriety,  to  get  from  various  people  with 
whom  I  have  been  brought  in  contact  during  a  diver- 
sified life  spent  in  many  places  and  in  touch  with 
all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men — and  of  women  not 
a  few — experiences  joyous  and  sad,  episodes  tragic 
and  comic,  adventures  and  other  happenings,  that 
go  to  make  up  life.  One  or  two  of  the  matters  dis- 
cussed are  based  upon  personal  experiences,  some  of 
them  came  under  my  own  observation,  while  others 
were  related  to  me  by  persons  whose  veracity,  unlike 
their  stories,  is  beyond  question. 

These  I  have  faithfully  set  down  with  just  enougn 
modification  to  make  them  credible,  with  just  enough 
imagination  to  supplement  and  show  forth  the  truth 


6  Preface 

that  is  in  them.  Since  there  is  in  nearly  every  story 
at  least  a  basis  of  truth — some  of  those  which  appear 
most  improbable,  nay,  impossible,  are  absolutely  true 
even  to  details — I  have  seen  fit  to  name  the  collec- 
tion "  The  Records." 

The  stories  have  been  gathered,  as  is  evident  even 
to  a  casual  inspection,  from  all  parts  of  the  country. 
My  knowledge  of  them  has  extended  over  many 
years,  the  writing  of  them  has  been  done  at  intervals 
during  a  long  and  busy  period. 

Lest  I  should  be  deemed  guilty  of  using  the  scalpel 
of  the  surgeon,  or  the  knife  of  the  demonstrator,  OR 
human  experiences  in  unauthorized  ways,  it  will  in- 
terest the  reader  to  learn  that  in  most  cases  the 
record  has  been  made  not  only  with  the  permission 
but  often  upon  the  urgency  of  the  person  most  in- 
timately concerned.  No  one,  it  is  probable,  will  be 
able  to  identify  those  people  whose  doings  are  here 
recorded ;  but,  surprising  as  it  may  seem,  several  of 
the  actors  in  the  little  tragedies  or  comedies,  as  the 
case  may  be,  have  been  more  than  willing  to  appear 
in  this  book  under  their  own  proper  names ! 

I  have  sometimes  been  accused  of  writing  in  haste 
and  repenting  at  leisure.  Certainly  such  a  charge 
can  not  be  made  against  me  for  this  book,  at  least; 
for  I  have  written  it  at  leisure.  I  put  it  forth  in  the 
hope  that  its  reception  may  not  cause  me  to  repent 
of  it  in  haste. 

GYROS  TOWNSEND  BRADY. 

BROOKLYN,  NEW  YORK,  June  1,  1904. 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Page. 

He  passed  by  with  Miss  Jefferys  on  bis  arm.      Frontitpiece  24. 

"Glad you  like  it,  ma'm,"  he  repeated       .          .          .  43 

"  Well,  what  day  is  it  ?  " 74 

"He  was  mine,  if  love  gives  a  claim!"  she  cried          .  88 

He  got  a  fierce  bite      '    .          .          .          .          .          .  IOJ 

"Stop! "  he  cried;  "just  as  you  are!'1     .          .          .  113 

He  bad  just  strength  enough  to  lift  the  lantern     .          .  153 

"Strike!"  he  said 180 

"You!" zp7 

"My  God!    My  God !    What  must  I  do?"         .          .  230 

How  strangely  happy  she  felt  clinging  to  bis  arm  .          .  252 

"I — I  teg  your  pardon,"  be  said     ....  277 

"Well,  sir?"  asked  Mr.  Wilder,  expectantly     .          .  293 

She  stared  at  them  in  petrified  astonishment           .          .  309 


CONTENTS. 


FIRST  RECORD 

A  Syndicate  Hero    ......        1  1 

SECOND  RECORD 

How  "The  Kid"  Went  Over  the  Range     .          .       29 

THIRD  RECORD 

Her  Birthday  ......        65 

FOURTH  RECORD 

««  To  Her  Who  Loved  Him  Best  of  All"     .          .        79 

FIFTH  RECORD 

The  Baby's  Adventures  and  Mine  89 

SIXTH  RECORD 

Divided  —  A  Romance  of  the  Mountains        .          .     107 

SEVENTH  RECORD 

The  Apotheosis  of  Woodward      ....     jjj 

EIGHTH  RECORD 

The  Reparation       ......     161 

NINTH  RECORD 

The  Wreck  and  the  Letters        ....     183 

TENTH  RECORD 

The  Atheist  .......     2IJ 

ELEVENTH  RECORD 

The  Impulses  of  Eleanor  ....      2JJ 

TWELFTH  RECORD 

The  Levite    .......      265 

THIRTEENTH  RECORD 

Graduates  of  the  School    .....     285 

FOURTEENTH  RECORD 

The  Matchmaker     ..... 


THE  RECORDS 

First   Record 

A   SYNDICATE    HERO* 

The  fact  that  persons  whose  patronymic  is  Smith 
usually  labor  under  the  added  disability  of  such  un- 
distinguishing  names  as  John  or  William,  is  the  re- 
sult of  one  of  those  forms  of  parental  aberration 
which  shows  a  profound  lack  of  consideration  for  the 
future.  Smith  isn't  a  bad  name  of  itself.  There  is 
something  strong  and  sturdy  about  it  which  suggests 
Hal  of  the  Wynd,  and  which  goes  back  very  far — 
even  to  Tubal  Cain.  But  it  is  widely  diffused,  and 
therefore  lacks  distinction.  Ergo,  he  is  a  wise  father 
of  Smiths  who  can  differentiate  his  progeny  from  the 
monotonous  mass  by  coupling  Smith  with  something 
that,  being  peculiar,  identifies,  while  it  also  differ- 
entiates. 

The  practice  of  parting  names  in  the  middle  is 
generally  reprehended,  but  if  it  be  ever  excusable, 
it  is  so  in  the  case  of  Smith.  P.  Sigsbee  Smith 
thought  so,  at  any  rate,  and  he  possessed  none  of  the 
qualities  usually  ascribed  to  those  who  bisect  a  name. 
He  was  born  in  that  section  of  country  so  little 

*  By  courtesy  of  "  Scribner's  Magazine." 


12  The  Records 


known,  and  less  noticed  by  the  East,  which  lies  be- 
yond the  Mississippi  and  which,  like  the  famous  tail 
of  the  story,  will,  some  day,  wag  the  national  dog! 

Contrary  to  the  habit  of  Western  youth  in  good 
circumstances,  he  had  not  been  sent  East  to  college, 
but  had  been  educated  at  a  Western  State  University, 
whose  diploma  meant  less,  perhaps,  than  those  of  the 
more  ancient  institutions,  but  which,  nevertheless, 
covered  a  multitude  of  healthy  college  influences. 
His  father  had  been  a  soldier,  who  had  fought  with 
distinction,  under  Grant,  in  the  Civil  War,  and  had 
made  a  good  income  afterward  in  law  and  politics; 
the  small  accumulations  of  which  he  left  to  P.  Sigs- 
bee,  his  only  surviving  descendant. 

P.  Sigsbee  roughed  it  for  a  time  in  the  West  after 
the  death  of  his  father,  and  then,  by  shrewd  and 
judicious  investments,  increased  his  original  legacy, 
until  it  grew  to  a  comfortable  fortune — beyond  the 
Mississippi!  It  was  a  mere  drop  in  the  bucket,  he 
found  out,  when  he  came  East.  He  didn't  come  East 
to  make  a  greater  fortune,  or  because  he  was  dis- 
satisfied with  the  West,  either,  but  because  of  a 
woman. 

Elorence  Jefferys,  whose  father  owned,  or  con- 
trolled, the  great  Hamilton  railroad  system,  which 
gridironed  a  large  part  of  the  West  with  its  tracks, 
was  the  cause  of  P.  Sigsbee's  defection.  In  company 
with  hundreds  of  others,  he  had  met  her  for  one  brief 
half -hour  at  a  reception  given  her  father  by  the  local 
railroad  magnates  on  one  of  the  General's  tours  of 
inspection.  P.  Sigsbee  saw  her,  was  conquered,  and 


A  Syndicate  Hero  13 

came  East  forthwith.  Florence  Jefferys  did  not 
know  him  from  Adam,  of  course,  but  he  was,  never- 
theless, determined  that  she  should  know  him,  and 
he  was  youthful  enough,  and  buoyant  enough,  and 
hopeful  enough,  to  believe  that  with  knowledge  she 
could  not  fail  to  love  him  as  he  loved  her — a  very 
iWestern  point  of  view,  indeed! 

To  come  to  New  York  was  easy,  but  to  get  re- 
introduced  to  Florence  Jefferys  was  difficult.  The 
months  passed,  and  he  got  no  nearer  to  her  than  the 
columns  of  the  daily  papers,  in  whose  social  reviews 
she  often  appeared.  He  was  a  resourceful  youth, 
or  he  would  never  have  thought  to  patronize  a 
"  Press  Clipping  Bureau "  for  accounts  of  her 
doings!  Realizing,  at  last,  that  a  long,  hard  cam=- 
paign  would  be  needed,  he  decided  to  settle  in  New 
York  for  good.  He  was  a  tenacious  man,  and  what 
he  determined,  he  determined. 

He  had  studied  law,  for  which  he  had  no  fancy 
or  faculty,  so  he  hung  out  his  shingle  in  one  of  the 
poorer  down-town  districts — more  to  justify  himself 
for  doing  nothing,  than  for  anything  else — and  pro- 
ceeded to  camp  on  the  trail  of  Miss  Jefferys.  It  led 
him  in  the  summer  to  Bar  Harbor,  where  her  father 
owned  one  of  those  palacps  of  pleasure  modestly  dis- 
guised under  the  name  of  a  "  cottage." 

P.  Sigsbee  was  a  good-looking  young  man,  and  as 
he  dressed  well  and  had  the  good  luck  to  make  the 
acquaintance  of  one  or  two  old  army  friends  of  his 
father,  he  at  last  achieved  a  slight  acquaintance  with 
his  divinity.  If  not  heart-whole  and  fancy  free,  she 


14  The  Records 


was  yet  unengaged,  for  the  papers,  he  was  sure, 
would  have  announced  an  engagement  long  since. 

There  were  not  many  available  young  men  at 
Bar  Harbor  so  early  in  the  season.  At  least  they 
did  not  bear  any  proper  proportion  to  the  available 
young  women,  and  P.  Sigsbee  progressed  somewhat 
in  his  acquaintanceship  with  the  young  lady,  al- 
though he  could  not  flatter  himself  that  he  made 
any  deep  impression  upon  her  heart.  There  seemed 
no  way  of  advancing  himself  in  the  affair,  and  in 
dismay  he  was  conscious  at  last  that  the  summer  was 
waning  without  bringing  to  him  the  desired  results. 
As  it  wore  on,  more  available  people  of  the  mascu- 
line persuasion  came  to  the  island,  and  Miss  Jefferys 
got  farther  from  him  than  ever. 

Among  his  acquaintances  was  a  young  man  named 
Lutterworth.  Lutterworth  was  an  ambitious  young 
fellow,  of  good  family,  and  better  parts,  who  was 
the  special  correspondent  of  a  syndicate  of  New 
York,  Boston  and  Philadelphia  papers,  as  well  as 
the  representative  of  the  Associated  Press  at  Bar 
Harbor.  They  were  congenial  spirits,  these  two, 
and  in  a  moment  of  desperation,  P.  Sigsbee  confided 
his  situation  to  the  other. 

"  What  you  want,  P.  S.,"  said  the  sage  Lutter- 
worth, after  reflecting  deeply  upon  the  confidence 
of  his  friend,  "is  to  get  yourself  before  the  public 
in  some  way.  You  want  to  be  a  hero,  create  a  sensa- 
tion, shine  out  as  doing  something  startling.  Get 
yourself  talked  about,  you  know,  for  courage  and 
daring,  and  so  on.  Those  things,"  oracularly,  "  ap- 


A  Syndicate  Hero  15 

peal  to  a  woman  " — he  was  twenty-two  and  knew  it 
all!  "  Get  'em  talking  about  you.  Now,  if  you 
can  only  suggest  some  sort  of  a  sensation,  I'll  work 
it  up  in  the  papers  for  all  it  is  worth." 

"  Yes,"  answered  P.  Sigsbee,  disconsolately,  "  I 
suppose  so.  But  where's  the  sensation  to  come  from? 
Hang  it  all,  I'm  willing  to  do  anything  that  a  man 
can  do.  But  what  is  there  to  do?  I  can  ride  a 
broncho,  or  rope  a  long-horn,  or  shoot  a  pipe  out  of 
your  mouth  from  across  the  road,  but  these  things 
don't  seem  to  go  here.  I  don't  believe  there's  a 
cayuse  or  a  steer  on  the  island.  And  that's  about 
all  I'm  good  for." 

He  had  quite  forgotten  his  college  degree  and  his 
law  office,  it  seemed,  but  of  what  avail  were  they  in 
winning  a  woman's  heart!  " 

"  No,"  said  Lutterworth  thoughtfully,  "  there's 
not  much  chance  for  the  display  of  such  rare  and 
valuable  talents  in  this  locality.  Yet  these  things 
should  be  worth  something,  P.  S.  Ah,  I  have  it!  " 
he  suddenly  exclaimed,  light  breaking  in  upon  him. 
"  The  very  thing!  What  was  it  you  were  telling  me 
yesterday  about  a  row  on  the  Tennessee  ?  " 

"  It  wasn't  much  of  a  row." 

"  At  any  rate,  let's  have  it.  Perhaps  I  may  do 
something  with  it." 

"  Well,  you  see,  since  General  Grant  died  the 
other  day,  all  the  naval  officers  have  been  wearing- 
crape  as  a  badge  of  mourning.  I  was  visiting  the 
flag-ship  with  some  young  ladies,  and  somehow  we 
began  to  discuss  the  dead  general.  You  know  he 


16  The  Records 


was  one  of  father's  friends,  and  has  always  been  a 
hero  of  mine.  That  man,  Sluman,  you  know,  that 
little  whiffet  that's  on  the  Admiral's  staff — how  such 
a  man  as  the  Admiral  could  put  him,  or  keep  him, 
on  his  staff  is  more  than  I  can  tell " 

"  Yes,  yes,  but  go  on." 

"  That  little  ass  made  some  remarks  concerning 
Grant  which  were  highly  derogatory — insulting  I 
called  them.  It  made  me  mad,  especially  as  he  was 
wearing  crape  for  Grant  at  the  time,  so  I  took  him 
aside  and  told  him  forcibly  that  if  he  made  any 
more  talk  like  that  in  my  presence,  I'd  knock  his 
head  off,  if  I  had  to  do  it  before  the  whole  ship's 
company.  I  believe  I'd  have  done  it  right  then  and 
there,  as  it  was,  but  you  see  the  young  ladies  were 
present." 

"Um!"  returned  Lutterworth.  "Did  they  hear 
what  you  said?  " 

"  I  suppose  so.  I  didn't  speak  so  low  as  I  should 
have  done,  perhaps." 

"I  think  I  can  make  something  out  of  that  story. 
All  you  have  to  do  is  to  back  me  up  in  whatever  I 
say,  and  we'll  set  afloat  a  bigger  sensation  than  the 
old  flagship  herself." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do?  " 

"  Never  mind,"  answered  the  resourceful  Lutter- 
worth, "  I'll  fix  it  up  all  right." 

"  I'd  hate  to  be  laughed  at." 

"  You'll  be  admired,  envied,  adored!  Leave  it 
to  me." 


A  Syndicate  Hero  17 

"  Well,  go  ahead,"  at  last  assented  P.  Sigsbee, 
not  entirely  easy  in  his  mind,  however. 

The  next  morning  there  was  a  brief  despatch  in 
the  Associated  Press  reports  to  the  effect  that  one 
of  the  officers  of  the  North  Atlantic  Squadron,  then 
on  its  annual  summer  cruise  to  Bar  Harbor,  had 
spoken  in  a  manner  derogatory  to  the  memory  of 
General  Grant;  and  that  a  prominent  summer  so- 
journer  had  taken  exception  to  the  officer's  remarks, 
and  had  sent  him  a  challenge  to  fight  a  duel.  In  the 
special  correspondence  to  the  metropolitan  dailies 
which  Lutterworth  represented  there  was  a  fuller 
and  more  explicit  account  of  the  row,  with  the  addi- 
tional information  that  the  challenger  was  a  West- 
ern man  whose  father  had  served  under  and  had 
been  a  friend  of  the  great  general. 

They  were  innocent-looking  little  paragraphs,  but 
they  excited  a  great  deal  of  attention.  It  was  sum- 
mer and  there  was  not  much  doing  in  the  country  at 
large.  The  item  was  widely  read  and  commented 
upon  with  avidity. 

The  arrival  of  the  papers  made  a  sensation  on  the 
island  as  well.  A  little  thing  stirs  up  a  summer 
colony,  and  this  was  apparently  a  great  one.  As 
soon  as  he  read  the  notice,  P.  Sigsbee,  in  great  per- 
turbation, posted  off  to  find  Lutterworth. 

"  See  here,"  he  exclaimed.  "You  blamed  idiot, 
what  does  all  this  mean?  You'll  get  me  into  no  end 
of  trouble." 

"  Keep  cool,  old  man,"  said  Lutterworth,  inaper- 
turbably.  "  It's  all  right.  You  let  me  work  it  out 
2 


18  The  Records 


in  my  own  way.  You  are  not  afraid  to  fight  a  duel, 
are  you?" 

"  Fight  a  duel?  Of  course  not!  I've  looked  into 
the  mouth  of  a  loaded  pistol  more  than  once.  I'm  not 
afraid  of  anything  but  being  made  a  fool  of.  But 
this  will  never  do  at  all." 

"  It'll  work;  you  see  if  it  doesn't.  Besides,  it's 
just  beginning." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  now?" 

"  I'm  going  to  interview  you." 

"  Not  by  a " 

"  Hold  on!  Yes,  I  am.  Let  me  see.  You  sent 
a  challenge  off  to  young  Sluman.  Now  the  question 
is,  what  did  he  do?  " 

"But  I  didn't  send  a  challenge,  you  idiot!" 

"  I  know,  I  know.  But  in  this  story  you  did. 
iWhat  do  you  think  he  would  do  in  that  case?" 

"  "Well,  if  I'm  a  judge  of  a  sneak,  he'd  try  to  get 
out  of  it." 

"Exactly.    But  how?" 

"  I  don't  know.    But  you  addle-headed " 

"  Don't  call  names.  Let  me  think.  I'll  make 
him  decline  it  as  against  the  rules  of  the  service. 
That's  first-rate.  Now,  one  other  question.  What 
would  you  do  under  such  circumstances?" 

"You'll  drive  me  crazy.  I  tell  you  the  circum- 
stances are  impossible." 

"  But  if  they  were  possible?" 

"  Well  I  suppose  if  I  were  fool  enough  to  get 
into  such  a  scrape  I'd  brand  him  as  a  coward,  and 
threaten  to  shoot  him  on  sight." 


A  Syndicate  Hero  19 

"Good!  Splendid!  Great  head!  What  would 
he  do,  then? " 

"  Anyone  who  wasn't  an  utter  abject  craven  would 
take  me  up  then,  I  suppose,  but " 

"  Good  again.  Everything  is  going  along  delight- 
fully. He  accepts  your  challenge.  Yes,  you  can 
fight  in  Green  Mountain  Gorge.  That  would  be  a 
beautiful  place  for  a  fight,  so  wild,  so  romantic." 

"  I'll  tell  you  one  thing,  Lutterworth.  If  you 
keep  on  there  will  be  a  shooting  match,  and  it  won't 
be  in  Green  Mountain  Gorge,  either,  and  you'll  be 
the  victim." 

"  P.  S.,  if  you-  don't  bless  me  for  this  until  the 
end  of  your  life,  after  I  get  through,  you  can  shoot 
me  on  sight.  Now,  go,  my  boy — hold  on,  though! 
Those  yarns  about  your  prowess,  riding  bronchos, 
shooting  pipes,  all  that  stuff.  Is  that  straight 
goods?" 

"True  as  Gospel,  but " 

"All  right.    Get  out!" 

"Lutterworth,  you're  a  fool!  You'll  ruin  me," 
said  P.  Sigsbee,  turning  away  in  despair. 

The  next  morning  the  papers  contained  an  inter- 
view with  the  challenger,  whose  name,  however,  for- 
tunately for  P.  Sigsbee's  peace  of  mind,  was  not 
given.  The  affair  was  cleverly  exploited  further.  A 
challenge  had  been  sent  and  declined  by  the  naval 
officer  on  the  plea  that  the  customs  of  the  service 
prevented  his  acceptance.  The  challenger  thereupon 
had  declared  his  intention  of  publicly  branding  the 
other  man  as  a  coward  and  shooting  him  on  sight. 


20  The  Records 


At  that  the  naval  officer  had  accepted  the  challenge, 
seconds  had  been  named,  one  of  whom  was  a  promi- 
nent young  literary  man — Lutterworth  wanted  to 
get  a  little  personal  glory  out  of  his  magnificent  in- 
ventions— a  meeting  had  been  appointed  to  take 
place  in  Green  Mountain  Gorge  the  next  morning. 
After  these  preliminaries  had  been  settled,  it  was 
stated  that  the  Admiral  had  somehow  got  wind  of  the 
affair  and  peremptorily  confined  the  young  officer 
to  his  ship. 

The  excitement  was  increasing.  Lutterworth  had 
handled  the  case  most  brilliantly.  His  telegrams 
told  just  enough  to  pique  curiosity  to  the  highest 
point.  It  was  the  sensation  of  the  hour.  Staid  old 
veterans  of  the  late  war,  such  as  by  good  fortune 
General  Jefferys  happened  to  be,  discussed  the  affair 
over  their  cigars,  and  while  they  all  deprecated  the 
practice  of  duelling,  they  were  delighted  to  find 
some  one  willing  to  fight  to  defend  the  memory  of 
the  dead  commander.  Fair  damsels  exchanged  im- 
pressions and  lauded  the  heroic  challenger  to  the 
skies — "  So  romantic!  So  gallant,  you  know!" 

Lutterworth  received  a  frantic  telegram  every  half 
hour  during  the  morning,  asking  for  more  particu- 
lars. When  P.  Sigsbee  found  him  in  his  room  after 
the  arrival  of  the  papers,  he  was  chuckling  with 
glee. 

"  What  did  I  tell  you,  old  man?  This  is  the  sen- 
sation of  the  day." 

"  It  is,"  grimly  assented  P.  Sigsbee.  "  Too  much 
of  a  sensation  for  me.  Thank  the  Lord  nobody  iden- 


A  Syndicate  Hero  21 

tifies  me  with  it  yet.  If  they  did  I  should  be  the 
laughing  stock  of  the  town." 

"  Not  you.  You  don't  know  these  Eastern  people. 
Besides,  before  to-morrow  you  will  be  identified  with 
it." 

"  You  are  not  going  to  interview  me  again?  " 

"  No,  indeed.  I  will  now  make  a  formal  request 
of  you  for  an  interview " 

"  Which  I  decline  to  grant,  at  once." 

"  Of  course,  that's  the  proper  thing  for  you  to 
do  now.  I  am  going  to  find  out  your  name  from 
some  other  source." 

"  I  forbid  you,"  wrathfully. 

"  Oh,  keep  cool"!  " 

"  You  can't  get  my  name  from  any  other  source, 
anyway.  No  one " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  can,"  said  Lutterworth,  teasingly. 

"What  source?" 

"  Who  were  those  young  ladies  who  were  with 
you  on  that  ship  that  day  you  talked  to  Sluman? " 

"  I  shall  not  tell  you." 

"  Well,  I  have  found  out  without  your  help." 

"  Who  told  you?  " 

"  They  did  themselves.  They  are  more  than 
willing  to  talk  of  this  affair.  One  is  Miss  Johnson, 
the  other  Miss  Rivers.  Miss  Rivers,  whom  I  know 
very  well,  told  me  she  was  sure  you  were  the  man. 
I  met  these  young  ladies  last  night  and  they  dared 
me  to  deny  it" 

"  You  didn't  deny  it,  of  course  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not." 


22  The  Records 


<  What  did  you  do?" 

"  I  made  them  swear  secrecy  as  to  the  officer's 
name." 

"  Oh,  they  knew  that,  too?  " 

"  Yes.  I  don't  want  anybody  to  get  into  trouble 
over  this  affair,  although  that  man  deserves  it,  I  de- 
clare. I  think  those  girls  will  keep  quiet  about  him, 
all  right.  But  they  are  certain  to  tell  your  name." 

"  Great  Heavens!    What  have  you  done  for  me?  " 

"  The  best  thing  in  your  life.  Just  wait  until  I 
am  through  with  you.  Miss  Rivers  is  an  intimate 
friend  of  Colonel  Winsor's  daughter.  Colonel  Win- 
sor  is  an  old  friend  of  General  Jefferys.  Fannie 
Winsor  is  one  of  Florence  Jeffeay's  boon  compan- 
ions  " 

"  See  here,  Lutterworth,  when  you  speak  of  that 
young  woman,  please  refer  to  her  as  'Miss  Jefferys.'" 

"  Oh,  Lord,  you're  hit  hard !  "Well,  Miss  Rivers 
told  Miss  Winsor.  Miss  Winsor  told  her  father,  her 
father  told  General  Jefferys.  Miss  Winsor  also  told 
Miss  Jefferys.  There  was  a  dinner  party  given  there 
last  night  and  they  were  all  talking  about  it.  Gen- 
eral Jefferys  said  you  were  a  fool  to  fight  a  duel, 
but  he'd  like  to  meet  you  just  the  same.  Miss  Jef- 
ferys said  you  were  a  hero  to  defend  General  Grant, 
and  said  further,  that  she  had  met  you,  and  that 
you  were  a  man." 

"  You  don't  say  so!  "  joyfully  grabbing  the  other 
man's  hands.  "  Lutterworth,  old  man 

"  I  told  you  to  let  me  alone  and  I'd  fix  you  all 


A  Syndicate  Hero  23 

right.  Now  go  away  and  leave  me.  You  have  re- 
fused to  be  interviewed.  That's  all  I  want." 

At  the  hotel  when  he  went  back,  P.  Sigsbee  found 
an  invitation  to  a  lawn  party  given  that  evening  at 
the  Jefferys  cottage.  He  went,  of  course,  and  had  a 
happy  time.  Although,  when  taxed  by  his  fair 
hostess,  he  denied  up  and  down  that  he  had  sent  any 
challenge  and  he  repeated  his  denial  to  General  Jef- 
ferys,  who  condescended  to  notice  him  during  the 
evening,  he  was  not  believed.  Besides,  P.  Sigsbee 
could  not  deny,  in  the  face  of  the  testimony  of  the 
Misses  Rivers  and  Johnson,  that  he  had  been  in  the 
flag-ship,  and  had  reproved  the  officer — name  still 
undeclared — for  ojefaming  the  memory  of  the  dead 
general.  That  was  enough. 

He  made  more  progress  in  his  wooing  in  that  one 
evening  than  he  had  hoped  to  achieve  in  years. 
Florence  Jefferys  really  distinguished  him  by  her 
cordiality,  and  on  his  departure  he  received  from 
both  her  father  and  herself  an  invitation  to  call, 
which  set  him  in  the  seventh  heaven.  All  he  wanted 
was  an  opportunity — he  was  a  well-bred,  likeable, 
admirable  fellow — and  Lutterworth  had  given  him 
that.  He  resolved  to  embrace  it  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  his  conscience  troubled  him  greatly. 

Lutterworth  was  at  the  lawn  fete,  too.  So  was 
the  Admiral.  So  also  were  a  number  of  officers  on 
his  staff,  all  earnestly  denying  that  there  was  any 
truth  whatever  in  the  yarn.  Lutterworth  and  the 
Misses  Johnson  and  Rivers  observed  with  glee  that 
Ensign  Sluman  turned  pale  as  death  when  P.  Sigs- 


24  The  Records 


bee,  supremely  unconscious  of  his  presence,  passed 
by  with  Miss  Jefferys  on  his  arm.  He  at  once  ex- 
cused himself  from  further  attendance  on  the 
Admiral,  on  the  plea  of  illness,  and  fled  to  the  ship. 
He  had  already  had  a  miserable  time  in  a  desperate 
endeavor  to  divert  suspicion  from  himself  in  the 
wardroom. 

Lutterworth  left  the  party  early  in  order  to  get 
his  special  correspondence  off  in  time  for  the  next 
day.  As  he  walked  down  the  road  he  was  overtaken 
by  the  Admiral  with  two  of  his  young  officers.  They 
were  riding  in  one  of  the  buckboards  indigenous  to 
the  island,  and  when  they  overhauled  the  young  man 
trudging  along  in  the  dust  and  darkness  they  hos- 
pitably invited  him  to  a  vacant  seat. 

"  Mr.  Lutterworth,"  said  the  Admiral,  "  you  know 
pretty  much  all  that  is  going  on  in  these  latitudes. 
Tell  me  how  that  absurd  story  originated?  That 
duel  affair,  you  know." 

"  I  know  no  more  than  is  contained  in  the  reports, 
sir,"  promptly  answered  Lutterworth,  with  a  strict 
regard  for  the  truth  and  very  tactfully  as  well. 

"  Lies,  all  of  them!  I'd  like  to  get  my  hands  on 
the  swab  that  wrote  'em !  "  exclaimed  young  Wright- 
son,  truculently,  from  the  front  seat. 

The  situation  began  to  get  interesting  for  Lutter- 
worth. Suppose  these  bloodthirsty  warriors  found 
out  that  he ? 

"  It's  an  infernal  outrage,  a  slander  on  the  whole 
navy,  that's  what  it  is!  " 

"  I  am  going  to  find  out  about  it.     To-morrow  I 


A  Syndicate  Hero  25 

shall  be  in  possession  of  the  facts,"  said  the  Admiral, 
sternly.  "  I  telegraphed  to  some  of  my  friends  in 
New  York  to  go  around  to  the  papers  and  get  the 
name  of  the  correspondent.  If  I  catch  him  I  will 
make  it  hot  for  him.  He  ought  to  be  keelhauled. 
You  know  him,  I  suppose?  " 

"  I  only  know  what  is  in  the  papers,  Admiral,"  an- 
swered the  youngster  boldly,  but  not  feeling  very 
happy. 

"  Well,  we  shall  all  know  in  the  morning.  By  the 
way,  we  are  having  a  reception  on  the  flag-ship  to- 
morrow from  ten  to  twelve.  You  know  the  fleet  sails 
in  the  afternoon.  We  shall  be  glad  to  welcome  you, 
Mr.  Lutterworth." 

"  Thank  you,  I'll  be  there,  sir,"  said  Lutterworth, 
gamely,  making  an  excuse  to  leave  them  as  he  did  so. 

Well,  he  was  in  for  it,  anyway,  they  would  surely 
find  out,  and  he  might  as  well  have  as  much  fun  as 
he  could  before  he  was  caught.  So  he  rushed  off  to 
his  office,  composed  himself  in  spite  of  the  threaten- 
ing exposure  and  went  to  work  on  his  despatches. 
Fortunately,  P.  Sigsbee  was  not  invited  to  the  ship. 

The  next  morning  the  duel  sensation  of  Mt.  Desert 
was  further  exploited.  It  was  announced  that  two 
of  the  belles  of  the  island  had  overheard  a  portion 
of  the  conversation  and  the  name  of  the  young  man 
who  had  offered  the  challenge  was  Mr.  P.  Sigsbee 
Smith,  formerly  of  Colorado,  now  a  resident  of  New 
York.  Here  followed  a  glowing  account  of  Smith, 
and  his  prowess  with  deadly  weapons.  He  was  char- 
acterized as  one  of  the  finest  products  of  the  United 


26  The  Records 


States  combining  the  freedom  and  courage  of  the 
West  with  the  culture  and  refinement  of  the  East. 
His  removal  to  New  York  was  dwelt  upon,  and,  as 
a  final  Napoleonic  touch  of  Lutterworth's  daring 
genius,  P.  Sigsbee  was  announced  as  a  prominent 
Republican  candidate  for  Congress  in  the  down-town 
district  in  which  he  resided,  that  fall.  There  was  a 
lot  more  about  the  situation,  consisting  of  interviews, 
real  or  fictitious,  from  some  very  important  men, 
who,  without  committing  themselves  to  the  approval 
of  the  duel,  commended  the  young  man's  bold  de- 
fence of  the  memory  of  General  Grant.  There  was 
also  a  modest  denial  of  the  report,  purporting  to 
come  from  P.  Sigsbee  himself,  which  was  so  cun- 
ningly worded  by  the  ingenious  Lutterworth,  that  it 
carried  conviction  to  everybody  that  the  story  was 
true. 

The  papers  and  the  answer  to  the  Admiral's  in- 
quiries got  to  the  flag-ship  at  the  same  time.  Lutter- 
worth, first  of  the  reception  guests,  arrived  soon 
after.  The  officers,  except  Sluman,  who  was  so  ill 
he  had  to  go  on  the  sick  list,  and  was  confined  to  his 
cabin,  had  arranged  a  warm  reception  for  that  young 
man.  He  had  wit  enough  to  imagine  the  situation, 
and  was  prepared  for  defence.  As  he  nonchalantly 
stepped  through  the  gangway  he  was  met  by  a  dele- 
gation headed  by  "Wrightson.  The  threatening  ap- 
pearance of  that  young  man  and  his  comrades  boded 
ill  for  the  correspondent. 

"  Mr.  Lutterworth '  he  roared  out,  savagely, 

shaking  his  fist  in  the  young  man's  face. 


A  Syndicate  Hero  27 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Wrightson,"  suavely  answered  Lutter- 
worth, turning  to  the  gangway,  "  allow  me,  Miss 
Rivers  and  Miss  Johnson!  " 

There  could  be  no  fighting  in  the  presence  of 
ladies,  and  Lutterworth  with  a  devotion  he  rarely 
manifested,  took  care  not  to  leave  them  for  a  mo- 
ment. He  resisted  the  most  pressing  invitations  to 
go  below  just  a  moment  for  a  drink,  a  word,  for  any 
purpose.  At  last  he  and  his  two  friends  left  the  ship 
together  with  the  first  of  the  guests  to  depart. 
Wrightson  would  have  given  a  month's  pay  to  have 
gone  with  him,  too.  It  cannot  be  denied  that  Lutter- 
worth was  a  genius. 

The  sailing  orders  of  the  Admiral  were  imperative 
and  the  ship  got  under  way  at  twelve  o'clock,  carry- 
ing from  the  harbor  a  fine  body  of  young  officers  who 
thirsted  for  an  opportunity  to  go  ashore  and  inter- 
view Lutterworth,  and,  incidentally,  P.  Sigsbee  Smith, 
as  well.  There  was  one  among  them,  however,  who 
watched  the  rocky  shores  of  the  island  fade  into  the 
distance  with  feelings  of  relief  too  great  to  be 
imagined. 

That  fall  two  things  happened  to  P.  Sigsbee  Smith. 
One  was  his  election  to  Congress  on  the  strength  of 
his  bold  defence  of  General  Grant,  which  many  new- 
found advocates  worked  to  the  last  limit  in  a  swift 
red-hot  campaign  in  his  district!  The  other,  just 
after  his  election,  was  his  marriage  to  Miss  Florence 
Jefferys,  with  the  full  approval  of  the  old  general 
himself.  Lutterworth  was  his  best  man  at  the  wed- 
ding, as  he  had  been  his  right-hand  man  in  the  cam- 


28  The  Records 


paign.  As  P.  Sigsbee  Smith  frankly  acknowledged, 
if  it  had  not  been  for  that  brilliant  and  audacious 
youngster,  neither  of  the  successes  would  have  come 
to  him.  Hia  wife  still  believes  him  a  hero,  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  he  told  her  the  truth  before  they 
were  married.  She  had  loved  him  at  first  for  the 
dangers  she  thought  he  had  evoked;  after  that  she 
loved  him  for  himself  alone — at  least  that  is  what 
she  said,  and  P.  Sigsbee  believed  her,  too! 


Second  Record 

HOW  "THE   KID"   WENT   OVER 
THE   RANGE* 

There  had  been  a  quarrel  between  them,  a  lover's 
quarrel  over  a  trivial  matter  unworthy  a  second 
thought.  Most  lovers'  quarrels  have  about  as  much 
foundation  as  theirs.  Whatever  the  ethics  of  the 
situation,  it  was  sufficiently  painful  to  fill  both  of 
them  with  misery.  On  the  principle  of  so  bearing 
herself  that  the  other  party  should  suffer  the  more 
in  any  quarrel,  Miss  Josephine  Cooper,  deliberately 
disregarding  several  tentative  efforts  at  reconcilia- 
tion— which  Lieutenant  William  Barnard,  12th 
Cavalry,  U.S.A.,  being  the  injured  party  and  the 
masculine,  felt  that  it  was  only  proper  he  should 
make — coolly  ordered  her  horse,  asked  Captain  Mc- 
Cauley  to  assist  her  to  mount,  and  prepared  to  ride 
away. 

Before  she  did  so,  she  flashed  one  look  at  Barnard 
hovering  disconsolately  near  with  a  mien  as  pro- 
foundly abject  as  even  the  most  self-willed  woman 
could  desire.  Fortunately  for  him,  he  caught  the 
glance  of  the  sparkling  blue  eye,  and  seemed  to  find 
something  encouraging  there,  although  it  was  patent 
a  moment  later  that  the  wish  was  father  to  the 
supposition. 

*  By  courtesy  of  "  Ees  Esa  Publishing  Co." 


30  The  Records 


At  any  rate,  he  stepped  to  her  side,  and,  under 
pretense  of  adjusting  the  stirrup  strap,  detained  her 
for  a  few  moments — an  attention  to  which  she  had 
no  inward  objection,  be  it  said. 

"  Josephine "  he  began. 

"  I  think  you  would  better  say  '  Miss  Cooper ' — 
after  last  night,"  she  interrupted,  coldly. 

"  I  wish  to  apologize,"  he  went  on,  unheeding; 
"  it's  all  my  own  fault.  I  was  all  wrong.  I'm  a 
beast." 

He  had  not  been,  and  he  was  not,  but  that  was 
what  the  girl  wanted  him  to  say,  nevertheless.  Her 
heart  throbbed  with  delight  as  he  spoke,  but,  because 
she  felt  guilty  herself,  she  concluded  he  had  not  yet 
had  punishment  enough. 

"  I  accept  your  apology,  Mr.  Barnard,  although  no 
apology  can  ever  restore  matters  to — er — the  former 
footing.  Good  morning." 

She  lifted  the  reins,  but  he  caught  the  bridle  and 
detained  her. 

"  Oh,  don't  say  that !  "  he  pleaded.  "  Surely,  you 
were  a  little  to  blame  yourself." 

He  was  a  profoundly  politic  young  man,  but  this 
bad  move  was  due  to  his  agitation  lest  she  should 
escape  him. 

"  Not  at  all,  sir,"  replied  the  girl,  with  a  great 
show  of  spirit.  "  Take  your  hand  off  the  bridle  at 
once!  " 

"  At  least — "  he  urged,  desperately,  "  don't  go  out 
alone." 

"Why  not?" 


Hmv  ((  The  Kid  "  Went  Over  the  Range    31 

"  I  don't  know,  but  I  fear— 

"  '  A  soldier  and  af eared? '  "  she  quoted,  laughing 
without  merriment. 

"  '  Afeared  '  for  you,  Josephine." 

"  Nonsense,  Mr.  Barnard!  What  is  there  to  "be 
afraid  of?  There  are  no  Indians  except  tame  ones 
and  dead  ones  for  a  hundred  miles.  The  most  un- 
pleasant object  I  am  likely  to  encounter  during  the 
day  could  not  be  so  bad  as  yourself,  sir.  I'm  going 
for  a  canter.  Will  you  release  my  horse?  " 

He  made  no  movement  to  let  go  the  bridle.  She 
lifted  the  little  raw-hide  whip  he  had  given  her. 

"Great  heavens!"  he  gasped,  staring  at  her. 
"  You  wouldn't  strike  me?  " 

"  Of  course  not,  but  the  horse.  Will  you  let 
him  go?  Thank  you.  Good  morning." 

She  cantered  off  over  the  open  toward  the  wood 
which  bordered  the  river,  leaving  the  lieutenant  bit- 
ing his  lips  in  futile  annoyance. 

"  Hello!  "  said  the  little  bishop,  looking  up  as  the 
young  man  stamped  his  foot,  and  muttered  some- 
thing which  was  decidedly  unecclesiastical.  "  What's 
the  matter,  Barnard?  " 

"Nothing,  sir." 

"Where  is  Josephine?" 

"  Gone  off  yonder." 

"Oho!"  said  the  bishop.  "You  have  had  a 
difference,  have  you?  I  see." 

"  Yes,  sir.  My  cursed — I  beg  your  pardon,  sir — 
temper " 

"  Ye-es,"  remarked  the  bishop  sapiently.    "  I  sup- 


32  The  Records 


pose  so.  I've  seen  this  sort  of  thing  before.  You 
can  tell  her  it  was  your  temper,  but  you  needn't  be 
particular  to  inform  me.  Never  mind;  she'll  come 
back  safely,  presently." 

"  But  I  donH  like  to  see  her  riding  over  this  coun- 
try alone,  sir." 

"  What  could  happen  to  her?  "  asked  the  old  man. 

"  Nothing  that  I  know  of." 

"  There  are  no  hostiles  around  here  now,  are 
there?" 

"  Not  one,"  answered  Captain  McCauley,  joining 
in  the  conversation.  "  I  don't  know  anything  that 
could  possibly  happen  to  her.  She  is  quite  safe. 
There  are  no  wild  animals  here  and  she  has  a  re- 
volver in  her  holster.  I  saw  to  that,  and  she  knows 
how  to  handle  it,  too.  Bishop,  it's  just  a  lover's 
apprehension  on  Barnard's  part.  I  wish  he'd  show 
as  much  interest  in  his  company  back  at  Fort  Kin- 


"  Suppose  you  follow  her,  Barnard,"  suggested  the 
bishop,  "  I've  no  doubt  she  would  be  more  than 
willing  to  have  you  overtake  her." 

"  Not  I!  "  replied  that  young  man,  moodily. 
"  She  wouldn't  speak  to  me  if  I  did,  and  I'd  better 
keep  away  from  her  a  little,  I  think." 

"  Very  well,"  answered  the  old  man,  "  McCauley 
and  J  are  going  fishing.  Come  along." 

"Do  you  think  she  could  get  lost?"  asked  Bar- 
nard, as  Captain  McCauley  scrambled  to  his  feet  and 
got  ready  to  join  the  bishop. 

"  Of  course  not,"  answered  that  veteran.     "  She 


Haw  "  The  Kid"  Went  Over  the  Range    33 

has  been  on  the  plains  before.  She  has  only  to  keep 
watch  of  the  sun,  or,  at  worst,  to  follow  the  river. 
Come  along,  Barnard.  Don't  be  a  jack  over  that 
girl!  She's  all  right.  Better  join  us  for  a  day's 
fishing.  There's  nothing  so  good  for  a  man  in  a — 
certain  condition,  as  fishing.  He  can  sit  and  moon 
over  the  water  all  day  with  his  thoughts  elsewhere, 
and  be  perfectly  happy,  thinking  he  is  occupied  and 
not  wasting  time.  It  looks  cloudy  over  there,  doesn't 
it,  bishop  ? " 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  bishop,  "  it  ought  to  be  a 
good  day  for  fishing.  Come  along,  Barnard;  the 
weather  will  accord  with  your  emotions." 

So,  with  laughter  and  gentle  raillery,  they  took  the 
disconsolate  lover  with  them  to  the  river.  The 
bishop  was  enjoying  one  of  his  rare  vacations,  and 
Captain  McCauley,  an  old  friend,  had  invited  him  to 
spend  as  much  time  as  he  could  at  old  Fort  Kinney, 
in  Northern  Wyoming.  The  bishop  had  brought 
with  him  Miss  Josephine  Cooper,  one  of  the  Bethany 
College  girls,  who  had  graduated  that  year,  and  who 
wanted  to  see  something  of  the  life  in  the  mountains 
before  she  returned  to  Philadelphia.  As  the  bishop 
and  her  parents  were  old-time  friends,  they  were 
willing  that  he  should  take  her  along.  All  the  eligible 
young  officers  at  Fort  Kinney  had  promptly  fallen  in 
love  with  Miss  Josephine,  but  Barnard  seemed  to  be 
in  higher  favor  than  the  rest. 

Toward  the  close  of  the  bishop's  visit,  McCauley, 
who  was  a  bachelor,  had  made  up  a  party  for  a  fish- 
ing and  hunting  expedition  down  the  Powder  River 


34  The  Records 


Valley.  Barnard,  who  was  his  junior  lieutenant, 
had  been  invited,  and  Josephine  Cooper,  accom- 
panied by  Mrs.  Maloney,  the  wife  of  Sergeant 
Maloney,  who  was  in  charge  of  the  soldiers  and 
servants  of  the  party,  had  gone  along  too.  They 
had  enjoyed  a  delightful  time,  and  were  preparing  to 
return  the  following  day,  when  the  unfortunate 
quarrel  between  Josephine  and  Barnard  cast  a  cloud 
over  the  happiness  of  both. 

Barnard's  misery,  as  he  followed  the  others  down 
to  the  river,  however,  was  more  than  matched  by 
Josephine's  regret.  Why  had  she  been  so  perverse? 
He  had  apologized,  admitted  that  he  was  wrong  when 
he  had  not  been,  when  she  really  was  to  blame ;  there- 
fore, she  might  have  forgiven  him  without  loss  of 
dignity  or  prestige,  in  which  case  he  would  have 
been  with  her,  and  she  would  not  have  been  loping 
along  under  the  trees  alone.  Not  that  she  was  afraid 
of  anything,  but  there  was  no  particular  fun  in  rid- 
ing alone,  and  she  wished  she  could  call  him  to  her. 
She  checked  her  horse  and  furtively  glanced  back, 
but  she  saw  Barnard  following  the  bishop  and  the 
captain  toward  the  river  away  from  her. 

"  Fishing!  "  she  murmured  to  herself,  "  that's  how 
much  he  cares  for  me!  That's  all  men  care  for  any- 
way— killing  something,  or  breaking  some  woman's 
heart!  Get  up,  Dick!  " 

She  laid  her -whip  lightly  on  the  neck  of  the  big 
cavalry  horse,  and  the  well-trained  animal  instantly 
sprang  into  a  long  sweeping  gallop  which  carried 
her  over  the  country  at  a  great  pace.  He  was  not 


How  "  The  Kid  "  Went  Over  the  Range    35 

exactly  a  lady's  horse — there  were  none  at  the  post — 
but  she  was  a  good  enough  horsewoman  to  manage 
him  thoroughly,  and  she  rather  enjoyed  the  big, 
rangy  trooper. 

Just  before  she  entered  the  thick  of  the  wood,  she 
turned  back  for  one  more  look.  The  camp,  with  its 
Sibley  tents  and  big,  canvas-covered  wagons,  shone 
brilliantly  white  in  the  green  of  the  landscape,  and 
Bridget  Maloney's  red  petticoat,  as  she  busied  her- 
self over  the  remains  of  the  breakfast,  added  a  bright 
dash  of  color  to  relieve  the  white.  The  sergeant  and 
his  helpers,  the  drivers  and  others,  were  lounging 
around  the  camp,  but  ttie  three  other  men  had  van- 
ished. 

The  country  in  which  Josephine  found  herself 
was  sufficiently  beautiful  to  compensate — so  far  as 
the  absence  of  humanity  can  ever  be  compensated  for 
by  nature — for  her  solitude.  Before  her  and  close 
at  hand,  for  the  camp  had  been  made  among  the 
foothills,  rose  the  gigantic  peaks  of  the  Big  Horn 
Range.  It  was  summer,  but  the  tops  of  the  moun- 
tains were  covered  with  banks  of  snow  which  fairly 
blazed  in  the  brilliant  sunlight.  She  had  been 
steadily  ascending  since  leaving  the  camp,  and  she 
could  look  back  for  miles  over  scenery  peculiarly 
wild,  rugged  and  desolate. 

Great  rocky  buttes  rose  here  and  there  around  her, 
and  sometimes  the  expanse  of  the  country  was  broken 
by  clumps  of  trees  or  level,  grass-covered  masses  of 
rocks  like  that  in  which  the  camp  was  made:  The 
winding  course  of  the  river  as  it  meandered  toward 


36  The  Records 


the  distant  plateau,  which  resembled  the  prairies  of 
the  bishop's  diocese,  was  indicated  by  trees  at  all 
levels.  In  front  of  her,  the  mountains  rose  black, 
awe-inspiring  and  grand.  The  influence  of  their 
majesty  and  calm  gradually  stole  over  her.  A  quar- 
rel, even  a  great  one,  in  the  presence  of  these 
tremendous  manifestations  of  nature,  seemed  trivial, 
petty;  and  a  little  disagreement,  such  as  had  parted 
the  lovers  this  morning,  was  of  no  consequence  what- 
ever. 

She  checked  her  horse,  and  would  have  turned 
back;  but  reflecting  that  Barnard  had  gone  fishing, 
she  concluded  to  go  forward  over  the  foothills  for 
a  nearer  look  at  those  great  mountains.  She  deter- 
mined to  forgive  him  as  soon  as  she  might  see  him. 
Kay,  she  would  even  admit  that  she  had  been  in  the 
wrong,  not  he.  Having  reached  this  happy  conclu- 
sion, she  felt  immensely  relieved,  and  gave  herself 
with  unalloyed  pleasure  to  the  enjoyment  of  the 
marvellous  scenery.  There  was  something  in  the 
situation  entrancing  to  the  Eastern  girl,  who,  except 
for  her  four  years  at  Bethany,  had  seen  little  of  the 
West.  She  had  come  to  Bethany  only  because  her 
parents  wished  her  to  have  the  benefit  of  the  bishop's 
cai-e,  as  many  other  Eastern  girls  had  received  it. 
She  rode  on,  therefore,  threading  her  way  among 
rocky  buttes,  galloping  over  stretches  of  grassy 
sward,  plunging  through  bits  of  forest,  forcing  her 
horse  across  some  narrow,  shrunken  stream,  giving 
no  thought  whatever  to  time,  distance  or  direction, 
and  ever  climbing  higher  and  higher  up  the  slope. 


How  "  The  Kid"  Went  Over  the  Range    37 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  changing  panorama  of 
mountains  before  her  as  her  tortuous  course  brought 
mighty  peaks  into  successive  view.  She  was  fas- 
cinated. 

The  stillness  was  perfect.  The  solitude  was  abso- 
lute. There  was  nothing  to  disturb  the  current  of 
her  thoughts  until  she  was  suddenly  awakened  by  a 
peal  of  thunder.  It  had  been  growing  darker  for 
some  time,  but  she  had  not  noticed  it.  She  looked 
back  quickly,  and  saw  that  the  sky  was  heavily  over- 
cast. She  had  been  long  enough  in  the  West  to 
recognize  the  signs  of  a  cyclone.  It  had  developed 
with  astonishing  rapidity,  and  seemed  about  to  burst 
upon  her.  What  should  she  do? 

Before  her  rose  a  lofty  and  threatening  mass  of 
rock.  On  the  other  side  of  it,  possibly,  she  might  find 
shelter  of  some  kind.  Her  first  thought,  of  course, 
had  been  to  ride  toward  the  camp,  but,  in  the  haze 
of  that  approaching  cyclone,  she  could  not  see  it, 
and  she  no  longer  knew  in  what  direction  it  lay. 
This  would  have  given  her  great  uneasiness  had  not 
her  thoughts  been  centered  upon  the  storm.  She 
could  look  for  the  camp  later;  now,  she  must  seek 
shelter.  Under  the  lee  of  the  great  rock  she  might 
find  a  hiding-place. 

The  horse,  as  if  sharing  her  apprehension,  had 
been  pawing  the  ground  uneasily,  and  welcomed  the 
shake  of  the  reins  and  the  word  which  sent  him 
toward  the  rock.  It  was,  perhaps,  half  a  mile  dis- 
tant, and  the  way  was  fairly  clear.  She  looked  at 
her  watch.  It  was  just  eleven  o'clock.  She  had 


38  The  Records 


been  gone  nearly  four  hours,  therefore.  They 
had  breakfasted  early,  and  she  had  started 
early  from  the  camp,  and  the  horse  was  somewhat 
tired,  but  she  fairly  raced  him  over  that  ground. 
Just  as  she  gained  the  rock,  the  storm  broke  upon 
her. 

There  was  not  a  tree  in  her  vicinity.  There  was 
nothing  that  the  cyclone  could  take  hold  of,  so  it 
passed  harmlessly  over  her  head  with  a  terrific  roar- 
ing that  nearly  frightened  her  to  death.  What  might 
have  happened  to  her  had  she  not  gained  the  shelter 
of  that  huge  rock,  she  could  see  by  the  way  the 
storm  tore  up  trees  farther  away  in  its  path. 

After  the  wind  had  spent  itself,  down  came  the 
rain.  Such  was  the  storm's  violence  that  she  waited 
for  some  time,  thinking  it  would  break,  but,  at  the 
end  of  a  half -hour,  there  were  no  indications  what- 
ever of  a  cessation.  It  was  now  noon,  and  she  was 
tired  and  hungry.  It  required  some  hardihood  for 
her  to  leave  the  shelter  of  the  rock,  and  battle  with 
the  rain,  and  she  waited  a  few  moments  longer.  She 
wished  more  than  ever  for  the  presence  of  Barnard. 
But  something  had  to  be  done.  She  could  not  remain 
there  forever.  She  doubted  if  any  one  could  find  her 
without  a  long,  exhaustive  search.  She  must  get 
back  of  her  own  motion.  How  to  do  that  was  a  ques- 
tion while  the  rain  kept  up. 

At  last,  she  walked  her  horse  out  into  the  open,  and 
looked  in  the  direction  whence  she  supposed  she  had 
come.  The  view  was  hidden  in  a  black  whirl  of  driv- 
ing rain.  She  could  neither  see  nor  hear  the  river. 


How  "  The  Kid"  Went  Over  the  Range     39 

It  had  been  her  intention  to  make  for  it  and  then, 
so  far  as  she  could — for  the  Powder  River  up  there 
was  a  wild,  mountain  stream,  often  tearing  through 
cliffs  and  canons,  which  would  prevent  any  one  from 
reaching  its  banks — to  follow  its  general  course  down 
the  mountain,  until  she  reached  the  camp.  That  was 
the  only  intelligent  course.  Now,  even  that  could 
not  be  done — at  least,  not  in  this  rain. 

It  dawned  upon  her  at  last,  as  she  sat  on  her  shiver- 
ing horse,  drenched  to  the  skin,  that  she  was  lost. 
She  could  scarcely  see  the  top  of  the  great  rock 
that  had  sheltered  her  from  the  mist  and  rain.  These 
weather  conditions  wqre  rather  unusual,  but  were, 
nevertheless,  a  painful  fact  to  her.  What  could  she 
do?  She  was  utterly  bewildered.  Yet  she  could  not 
remain  still.  She  shook  the  reins  over  the  horse's 
neck,  and  spoke  to  him.  He  turned,  and  slowly  made 
his  way  forward.  Going  anywhere  was  better  than 
standing  still,  for  she  had  become  so  nervous  that  it 
was  impossible  for  her  to  remain  long  in  one  place. 
She  would  let  the  horse  choose,  since  she  had  lost  all 
sense  of  direction. 

The  horse  proceeded  carefully,  picking  his  way,  at 
first,  but  finally  he  seemed  to  strike  some  sort  of  a 
trail.  She  had  heard  that  there  were  no  settlements 
nearer  than  Fort  Caspar,  toward  which  the  military 
road  from  Fort  Kinney  led  southward.  Yet,  as  she 
rode  on,  by  bending  low  over  the  saddle  she  could  see 
marks  of  a  trail.  It  was  an  ascending  trail;  they 
were  going  upward,  but  certainly  not  in  the  direction 
of  the  camp;  and  yet,  if  that  were  a  trail,  it  must 


40  The  Records 


lead  somewhere,  it  must  have  been  made  by  a  human 
being.  There  had  been  some  effort,  apparently,  to 
put  this  way  in  a  rough  condition  for  a  horse  to 
travel.  As  she  progressed,  she  grew  more  certain 
of  this  fact. 

So  absorbed  was  she  in  her  speculations,  that  she 
did  not  notice  that  it  was  growing  lighter.  In  fact, 
the  rain  had  ceased  almost  as  suddenly  as  it  had 
begun,  and,  although  the  mists  still  hung  low,  it  was 
evident  that  they  were  thinning  also.  She  was  irreso- 
lute as  to  what  to  do,  but,  seeing  the  trail  more 
clearly,  she  now  concluded  the  best  thing  was  to  keep 
on  jogging  ahead.  By-and-bye  the  sun  came  out, 
and  the  mist  disappeared  with  astonishing  rapidity. 
As  soon  as  she  could  see  about  her,  she  checked  the 
horse,  and  surveyed  the  scene. 

She  was  in  the  midst  of  a  rocky  pass.  The  scenery 
was  rugged  and  grand  beyond  description.  Far  below 
her,  the  river  rushed  madly  to  the  southward 
through  a  deep,  gloomy  canon.  Far  above  her,  on 
either  side,  towered  huge  walls  of  rock.  The  trail 
led  along  the  face  of  the  cliff,  and  a  few  feet  ahead 
of  her  bent  around  a  bold  escarpment,  and  was  lost. 
It  was  a  steadily  contracting  trail.  Before  her  it 
narrowed  so  that  two  horses  could  not  pass.  As  she 
looked  back,  she  could  see  nothing  familiar.  She 
had  wandered  into  this  great  rift  in  the  mountains 
— from  where  she  knew  not,  how,  she  knew  not.  She 
might  follow  the  trail  back  again,  but  whither  it 
would  lead  her  she  had  no  idea;  certainly,  not  to  the 
camp. 


41 


It  was  long  past  noon  now — one  o'clock,  she  found, 
by  looking  at  her  watch.  It  would  be  hours  before 
she  could  hope  to  reach  the  camp,  if  she  ever  reached 
it.  Somebody  must  live  at  the  end  of  that  trail. 
She  hesitated  a  moment  or  two,  then  decided  to  go 
forward.  It  would  be  perilous  to  pass  around  that 
narrow,  jutting  precipice,  but  it  would  be  almost  as 
perilous  for  her  to  go  back.  She  shuddered  as  she 
saw  the  dangerous  way  over  which  she  had  come  in 
the  mist  and  rain.  The  horse  had  carried  her  safely 
thus  far.  She  would  trust  him  farther. 

She  wanted  to  see  what  was  around  that  projecting 
buttress  of  rock,  anyway,  so  she  urged  her  horse 
cautiously  on.  It  was  narrower  than  she  had  im- 
agined. "Where  the  trail  turned,  her  shoulder  act- 
ually brushed  against  the  overhanging  cliff.  She 
shut  her  eyes,  and  repressed  a  desire  to  scream.  The 
horse  went  so  slowly  and  carefully  that  he  scarcely 
seemed  to  move.  She  repented  of  her  action.  Why 
had  she  come  ?  If  he  stepped  on  a  loose  stone,  if  his 
foot  slipped,  they  would  both  go  to  their  death  over 
that  precipice,  hundreds  of  feet  below.  Mr.  Barnard 
would  never  know  how  much  she  had  loved  him,  how 
sorry  she  had  been,  that  she  would  have  been  his 
willingly,  that — the  horse  stopped! 

She  opened  her  eyes.  They  had  turned  the  cliff. 
The  trail  widened  before  her,  and  she  stood  in  safety 
on  a  little  shoulder  of  the  mountain  as  wide  as  a 
street.  Before  her  was  spread  out  one  of  the  most 
enchanting  pictures  she  had  ever  seen.  The  trail 
dropped  gently  down  the  slope  into  a  beautiful  val- 


42  The  Records 


ley,  through  which  the  river  ran.  The  valley 
"  pocket  "  or  "  hole  "  as  such  things  were  called  out 
there — was  two  or  three  miles  long,  perhaps  a  mile 
wide  at  its  greatest  width,  and  was  literally  sur- 
rounded by  towering  walls  of  barren,  unbroken  rock. 
At  the  other  end,  a  waterfall  plunged  down  a  pre- 
cipice that  must  have  been  a  thousand  feet  high, 
forming  the  source  of  the  river,  which  ran  purling 
through  the  level  surface  of  the  valley  till  it  entered 
the  canon.  The  area  before  her  was  dotted  with 
trees.  There  were  houses  in  the  clearing,  the  smoke 
from  chimneys  floated  softly  in  the  still  air.  There 
were  horses  and  cattle  in  the  meadows.  It  was  a 
paradise  in  these  arid  mountains. 

For  a  moment,  in  the  heavenly  scene  which  spread 
before  her  vision,  the  girl  forgot  that  she  was  alone, 
wet,  shivering,  hungry;  that  she  was  lost.  The  rain 
had  given  a  fresh  touch  to  everything,  and  the  place 
appeared  bathed  in  the  sunlight  like  a  gigantic  gleam- 
ing emerald  in  a  matrix  of  gray  granite. 

"  Oh!  "  she  exclaimed,  "  how  beautiful!  " 

"  I'm  glad  you  like  it,  ma'am,"  spoke  a  voice  at 
her  elbow. 

As  she  turned  toward  the  side  of  the  mountain, 
she  saw  a  rifle  protruding  over  a  low  wall  of  rock; 
it  was  followed  by  the  tall,  well-built  and  elegant 
person  of  a  Western  cowboy  in  the  conventional 
attire,  loose  shirt,  flowing  handkerchief,  leather 
"  chaps,"  boots,  spurs,  broad  hat,  and  so  on.  Around 
his  waist  was  a  belt,  from  which  depended  a  sheath- 


"  Glad  you  like  it,  ma'am," 
he  repeated. — Page  43 


How  "  The  Kid"  Went  Over  the  Range    43 

knife  on  one  side,  on  the  other  a  heavy  revolver.  He 
carried  his  rifle  in  his  hand. 

"  Glad  you  like  it,  ma'am,"  he  repeated,  taking  off 
his  hat,  and  exposing  a  head  covered  with  dark  curls. 

"Like  it?"  said  Josephine,  "why,  it  is  lovely! 
I'm  lost,  sir.  My  party  is  camped  on  the  Powder 
River.  I  rode  away  alone  this  morning  and  was 
overtaken  by  the  storm.  How  I  came  here  I  scarcely 
know." 

"  Wall,  you  better  git  out  these  diggin's  as  quick  as 
you  kin,  ma'am.  Take  my  advice,  an'  mosey  down 
that  trail  ter  onct." 

"  But  can't  I  get  something  to  eat,  and  some  one 
to  show  me  the  way?  " 

"  Ain't  nobody  goin'  to  show  you  out  of  here. 
P,eople  who  gits  in  here  never  comes  out.  As  fer 
eatin',  I've  got  some  bread  and  meat,  an'  here's  some 
liquor." 

He  reached  behind  a  rocky  wall,  and  handed  her 
a  couple  of  roughly  made  sandwiches,  and  then  drew 
from  his  pocket  a  silver-mounted  flask  of  whiskey, 
which  he  uncorked  and  proffered  her. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  girl,  taking  the  sandwiches ; 
"  I'm  afraid  I'm  robbing  you." 

"Never  mind  that;  I  kin  git  more,"  he  answered 
laconically,  again  offering  her  the  liquor. 

"  No,  I'd  rather  have  some  water,  if  you  please." 

"  There  ain't  none  up  here,  but  I'll  git  you  some," 
turning  away.  "  You'd  best  git  off  your  hoss  an' 
stretch  yourself  while  you  eat.  You'll  have  some  tall 


44  The  Records 


ridin'  to  do  before  you  git  back,  if  y'ever  do  git 
back." 

There  was  something  mysterious  about  the  whole 
thing,  but  Josephine  Cooper  felt  sufficiently  able  to 
take  care  of  herself  in  the  presence  of  any  ordinary 
man,  and  this  handsome  young  fellow  appeared  en- 
tirely harmless,  so  she  felt  no  uneasiness.  She  per- 
mitted him  to  assist  her  to  dismount  from  the  horse, 
which  was  too  tired  to  move  away,  and  she  sat  down 
on  the  rock  and  began  to  eat  her  sandwiches  while 
her  interlocutor  went  for  water.  He  came  back  with 
a  tomato-can  full  of  that  precious  liquid  and  handed 
it  to  her  with  an  apology  for  the  cup,  and  then  stood 
and  watched  her  eat  and  drink. 

"  I  don't  know  what's  goin'  to  happen  to  you,"  he 
said  at  last. 

"  Happen  to  me  ?  "  exclaimed  the  girl.  "  Why, 
aren't  you  going  to  look  after  me?  Take  me  down 
the  mountain,  and  back  to  the  camp.  Mr. — but 
you  haven't  told  me  your  name." 

"  Carter,  ma'am,"  answered  the  young  fellow,  gaz- 
ing dubiously  at  her;  "  Kid  Carter,  they  calls  me 
up  here.  What's  yourn?  " 

"  Josephine  Cooper,"  responded  the  girl,  extend- 
ing her  hand.  "  I  am  here  with  the  bishop  and  Cap- 
tain McCauley  and  Mr.  Barnard  from  Fort  Kinney." 

"  Oh,  they're  soldiers,  ain't  they?  "  said  the  young 
man,  taking  her  dainty  hand  in  his  great  paw.  "  Wot 
are  they  doin'  there?  " 

"  They  are  out  for  a  little  fun." 


How  "  The  Kid  "  Went  Over  the  Range    45 

"  That  means  pluggin'  some  poor  devil  like  me,  I 
suppose,"  grimly  answered  Mr.  Carter. 

"  No,  no ;  merely  a  hunting  and  fishing  expedi- 
tion," interrupted  Miss  Cooper.  "  Why,  do  you 
fear  them? " 

"  I  ain't  af  eard  of  no  one,"  said  the  man,  proudly. 
"  Only " 

"  Look  here,  Kid,"  interrupted  another  voice, 
"  what  in  blazes  hev  you  got  there?  " 

A  shocky,  villainous-looking  ruffian,  dressed  in 
rude  garments  of  home-made  manufacture,  but 
armed  like  the  cowboy,  suddenly  appeared  on  the 
trail. 

"  Good  Lord,  it's  a  female  woman!  How  did  you 
git  her?  Say,  where  did  you  come  from,  sis?  " 

He  slouched  forward,  and  peered  insolently  into 
her  face.  She  sprang  to  her  feet  instantly,  shrink- 
ing nearer  to  Kid  Carter,  who  instinctively  placed 
himself  between  the  two. 

"  Who  is  this  person?  "  indignantly  asked  the  girl. 

"  Pusson!  "  roared  the  other  man,  throwing  back 
his  head  and  laughing  viciously,  "  pusson,  eh  ?  I'm 
a  gent,  I'll  hev  you  understand,  as  has  killed  four 
men  to  his  two." 

"  A  murderer!  "  cried  the  girl,  and  then,  sud- 
denly turning  to  Carter,  she  asked  him,  "  Is  it  true? 
Are  you  a ?  " 

"  Murderer? "  interrupted  the  second  man. 
"  We're  all  murderers  up  here  or  horse-thieves,  or 
else  we've  done  time,  an'  the  law  wants  us,  or " 

"  What  is  this  place  ?  "  asked  the  girl,  faintly. 


46  The  Records 


"  It's  called  '  HeU  Hole,'  "  answered  Kid  Carter, 
biting  his  lip  and  blushing,  violently. 

"  Yes,  that's  what  we  call  it,"  interrupted  the 
other  man,  again.  "  My  name's  Hollis,  Pete  Hollis. 
1  Three-fingered  Pete,'  "  he  added,  holding  up  his 
left  hand,  "  'cause  I  got  this  one  cut  off  in  a  little 
round-up  with  a  gent,  w'ich  I  blowed  the  top  of  his 
head  off  to  let  some  light  inter  his  brains,  so  he 
wouldn't  tackle  a  man  like  me.  An'  this  pocket 
w'ich  we  calls  '  Hell  Hole  '  belongs  to  us,  me  an'  some 
gents  below.  We  diskivered  it,  an'  we  keeps  open 
house  fer  everybody  that's  in  trouble,  ye  know,  as  is 
wanted  by  a  sheriff  or  the  military,  or  anythin'  like 
that.  The  way  you  come  is  the  only  way  in,  an'  no- 
body that  comes  in  goes  out  agin.  See  that  little 
rock  pile  there  ?  We've  allus  got  a  man  there  keepin' 
watch.  We  kin  hold  this  place  against  a  thousand 
men.  All  we've  got  to  do  is  to  draw  a  bead  with  a 
rifle  when  we  hears  any  one  comin',  an'  blaze  away. 
They  can't  only  come  one  at  a  time,  an'  we  allus 
settles  the  fust  one  afore  t'other  gits  around." 

"  But  those  houses  down  there?  " 

"  You  don't  think  we  live  like  Injuns  in  tepees, 
do  ye?  We  farm  a  little  down  there,  jist  enough  to 
keep  us  in  grub.  Why,  we've  got  a  society,  family 
life,  down  there.  Women — I'll  interduce  you  to 
'em.  Wot  are  you  in  here  fer?  " 

"  Great  heaven!  "  exclaimed  the  girl  to  the  cow- 
boy. "  Take  me  away  from  here !  " 

"  Don't  you  move,  Carter,"  cried  the  other  man, 
covering  him  with  his  Winchester.  "  I  got  the  drop 


How  "  The  Kid"  Went  Over  the  Range     47 

on.  ye.  I'd  be  justified  in  blowin'  yer  brains  out, 
Carter,  fer  these  interestin'  pereeedin's.  But  you're 
a  tenderfoot  here,  an'  don't  know  the  rules  of  the 
range.  Everything  wot  comes  in  here  has  to  go  to 
the  captain  for  his  inspection.  If  you  claims  the 
girl,  you  kin  do  it  down  there,  though  I  don't  reckon 
the  claim'll  hold  good,  seein's  I  come  on  the  scene. 
Go  on  down  that  trail;  you  f oiler  him,  miss;  your 
horse'll  come  along,  I  reckon." 

"  But  if  I  refuse  to  go?  "  asked  the  girl. 

"  I'll  let  daylight  through  him,"  roared  Hollis, 
pointing  to  Carter. 

"  Don't  mind  me,"  said  that  young  man  smiling  up 
at  her,  "  I  wouldn't  mind  it.  I  was  a  fool  to  let  him 
git  the  drop  on  me.  It's  all  in  a  day's  work." 

"  Have  you  killed  a  man,  too?  "  she  asked,  looking 
at  him  in  a  daze  while  he  stood  silently  before  her. 

"  Of  course,  or  he  wouldn't  be  up  here,"  said 
Hollis.  "  Now,  stop  this  palaverin'  an'  mosey." 

The  descent  into  the  valley  was  neither  long  nor 
difficult.  At  the  foot  of  the  trail  there  was  an  open 
clearing,  one  side  of  which,  under  some  beautiful 
old  trees,  stood  a  rude  house.  Two  or  three  men 
were  lounging  on  the  porch  in  front  of  it  playing 
cards.  A  slatternly  woman,  who  had  once  been 
pretty,  was  standing  in  the  doorway. 

"  Hello,  Pete !  "  cried  one  of  the  men,  "  what  hev 
you  got  there? " 

"  A  woman,  by  jinks!  "  cried  a  second.  "  Hev  yer 
killed  yer  man,  or  wot  are  ye  up  here  fer?  " 


48  The  Records 


"  Welcome  to  *  Hell  Hole  '  madam,"  said  another, 
who  seemed  of  a  higher  grade  than  the  others. 

"  Sir,"  instantly  said  Josephine  with  a  shudder, 
"  I  am  a  member  of  a  hunting  party  on  the  other  side 
of  the  mountains,  and  lost  my  way  in  the  rain  and 
mist.  I  don't  know  how  I  got  here.  I  wish  some 
one  to  show  me  the  way  back  to  my  camp." 

"  Captain,"  cried  Hollis  springing  forward,  "  she 
hadn't  ought  to  be  let  go.  Let  her  stay  here,  I'll 
take  keer  of  her." 

"You  will,  eh?"  said  the  semi-respectable  in- 
dividual addressed  as  "  captain."  "  Well,  who  found 
her? " 

"  I  did,"  said  Carter,  "  she  came  up  the  trail  on  my 
watch  an'  I  rounded  her  up." 

"  Didn't  look  much  like  roundin'  up  to  me,"  said 
Hollis  savagely.  "  W'en  I  saw  'em  she  was  a-settin' 
on  the  ground  eatin'  his  sandwiches  an'  he  was  a- 
talkin'  to  her  as  peaceful  an'  lamblike " 

"  She  is  my  captive,"  said  Carter  stubbornly.  "  I 
found  her — I  took  her;  I  could  hev  shot  her  all  right. 
I'd  drawed  a  bead  on  her  w'en  she  rounded  that 
curve,  but  I  seen  she  was  a  woman.  I  made  her  git 
off  her  horse.  We  come  here.  She's  my  captive. 
Ain't  you  miss? " 

He  shot  one  appealing  glance  at  her.  The  girl  was 
in  a  frightful  situation.  What  she  should  do  she 
could  not  imagine.  There  was  something,  however, 
in  Mr.  Carter's  look  that  promised  hope.  If  she  read 
him  aright  he  was  willing  and  anxious  to  help  her. 


Haw  "  The  Kid"  Went  Over  the  Range     49 

Moistening  her  lips  she  answered,  staking  all  on  his 
worthiness : 

"  Yes,  he  caught  me." 

"  But,"  said  Hollis,  starting  forward,  his  face 
flushing,  "  she  is  mine.  I  want  her  an'  I'm  goin'  to 
have  her." 

"  Get  back,  you  dog!  "  said  the  captain  whipping 
out  his  own  gun,  and  covering  Hollis  with  it,  "  you 
don't  seem  to  know  how  to  treat  a  lady.  Don't  you 
lift  a  finger,  or  I'll  blow  your  brains  out.  Madam," 
he  said  turning  to  the  girl,  "  my  name  is  Bell — John 
Bell.  I  was  once  a  surgeon  in  the  United  States 
Army.  I  had — a-er-little  difficulty  with  a  man  down 
in  Laramie  and  I — in  short — I  killed  him  and  had  to 
pull  in  my  freight.  That's  how  I  came  to  be  here. 
Have  no  fear.  You  shall  be  safe." 

"  Thank  you,"  cried  the  girl,  a  gleam  of  relief  ap- 
pearing in  her  face,  "  Thank  you." 

"  She's  mine,  I  tell  you,"  said  Carter  sullenly,  "  I 
got  her  an'  by  the  laws  you  made  me  sign  to  last 
week,  w'en  I  fust  come  here,  the  disposin'  of  her 
belongs  to  me. 

"  He's  right,  captain." 

"  The  Kid's  kerrect,  old  man,"  cried  one  of  the 
ruffians. 

"  Law  is  law,"  added  another. 

It  seemed  strange  to  hear  these  outlawed  men 
pleading  the  power  of  the  law.  The  captain  looked 
anxious.  Suddenly  his  face  fell  upon  the  form  of 
Hollis. 

"  What  are  you  skulking  here  for,  you  hound!  " 
4 


50  The  Records 


he  shouted.  "  Are  you  not  on  watch?  Get  back  to 
the  trail;  the  whole  United  States  army  might  be 
pouring  through  that  pass,  for  all  you  know!  Up 
there,  lively!  " 

Hollis  turned  instantly,  and  started  on  a  run  up 
the  road,  pursued  by  the  angry  shouts  of  the  rest 
of  the  gang,  who  were  profoundly  incensed  at  him 
for  his  absence,  for  their  safety  depended  upon  their 
rigid  control  of  that  pass. 

The  place  was  a  city  of  refuge  for  all  the  scoun- 
drels of  the  Northwest.  It  had  been  held  inviolate 
for  a  dozen  years  by  the  prowess  of  the  men  who 
found  shelter  there.  It  was  impossible  to  enter  the 
"  pocket "  except  through  that  dangerous  pass. 
Sheriffs  had  tried  it,  mobs  of  indignant  cattle-owners 
had  attempted  it,  even  the  United  States  army  had 
essayed  it,  but  with  no  success  whatever.  When  a 
man  got  in  here  he  was  safe  from  punishment  so 
long  as  he  stayed  there ;  provided,  of  course,  that  he 
were  able  to  get  along  with  the  other  outlaws  and 
desperadoes  who  lived  there. 

"  Madam,"  said  Bell,  "  what  the  Kid  says  is  right. 
That's  the  law  of  this  place.  We're  all  outlaws,  but 
we  have  learned  from  that  very  fact  that  we  must 
have  some  law  or  we  can't  live.  You  belong  to  him. 
But,  hark  ye,  Kid  Carter,  if  you  harm  that  young 
woman,  by  God,  look  to  it!  I'll  shoot  you  on  sight! 
Who  is  with  your  party,  madam?  " 

"  Captain  McCauley  and  the  bishop ' 

"  If  you  ever  get  out  of  here  alive,  and  if  you  ever 
see  them  again,"  continued  the  doctor,  "  give  my 


Hmv  "  The  Kid"  Went  Over  the  Range    51 

compliments  to  McCauley,  and  tell  him  I'm  living  in 
Hell — "  He  paused  just  long  enough  before  he 
added  the  word  "  Hole  "  to  make  his  meaning  ap- 
parent to  her. 

"  Ma'am,"  said  Carter,  "  the  sooner  we  git  out 
of  here,  the  better." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  her?  "  asked  Bell. 

"  Take  her  back  to  her  camp." 

"  Wot !  "  cried  one  of  the  men,  "  you're  goin'  to 
leave  the  'Hole?'" 

"  I  am." 

"  Well,  it's  your  own  risk,"  said  another;  "  dog- 
gone it,  I'd  not  do  it  ferNno  woman!  " 

"  Are  you  comin'  back,  Kid?  " 

"  If  I  kin  git  back,"  said  the  young  man. 

"  Bring  some  coffee,  ISTell,"  cried  the  doctor  to  the 
woman  in  the  door — a  lady  who  had  made  way  with 
her  husband.  "  I'm  sorry  we  have  no  sugar  at  pres- 
ent," he  added,  handing  it  to  Josephine ;  "  we  mostly 
take  things  black  and  strong  in  here.  Have  you  had 
a  bite  to  eat?" 

"  All  I  wanted,"  answered  the  girl,  drinking  her 
coffee,  the  stimulating  effect  of  which  she  thought 
would  be  valuable  to  her. 

"  Allow  me,"  continued  the  doctor,  as  Carter  led 
up  the  horse,  which  had  been  refreshed  by  a  good 
drink  of  water,  and  had  been  cropping  the  grass.  He 
lifted  her  to  the  saddle  with  perfect  ease  and  grace. 
"  It's  a  long  time,"  he  said,  softly,  "  since  I  have 
met  a  lady,  and  I  wish  to  God — but  this  is  part  of  the 
punishment." 


52  The  Records 


Carter  seized  the  bridle,  turned  the  horse  about, 
and  they  went  up  the  trail,  leaving  the  captain  and 
one  or  two  of  his  associates,  who  emulated  his  move- 
ment, standing  bareheaded  behind  them.  They  went 
along  for  some  distance  without  saying  a  word. 
Carter  plodded  moodily  ahead,  and  the  horse  fol- 
lowed steadily  after.  It  was  the  woman  who  broke 
the  silence. 

"  Mr.  Carter,"  she  said,  softly. 

There  was  no  answer. 

"  Mr.  Carter,"  louder. 

Still  no  answer. 

"Mr.  Carter!" 

"  "Well,  wot  is  it  ? "  he  said,  gruffly,  at  last,  not 
looking  at  her. 

"Is  it  true?" 

"Is  what  true?" 

"  What  those  men  said.    Are  you ?  " 

"  Yes,  every  one  of  us." 

"  It  can't  be  possible!     And  you  are ?  " 

"  You  see,  ma'am,"  said  the  young  man,  stopping 
and  turning  to  her,  his  face  flushed,  "  it  was  this  way. 
He  done  me  dirt,  an'  most  broke  me  down  in 
Laramie.  Filled  me  with  bad  whiskey  an'  w'en  he 
got  me  drunk,  robbed  me  of  my  money  at  kyards. 
Then  I  up  an'  plugged  him  full  of  holes.  The  sheriff 
tried  to  take  me  an' — I  laid  him  out,  too." 

"  And  all  this  for  a  sum  of  money?  " 

"  It  didn't  belong  to  me,"  explained  Carter.  "  It 
belonged  to  the  Cross  Bar  Cattle  Company.  I  was 
fetchin'  it  from  the  bank  fer  the  old  man  to  pay  the 


Hmv  "  The  Kid"  Went  Over  the  Range    53 

hands  with — a  whole  lot  of  it,  too.  I  wish  to  God 
I  hadn't  shot  him.  Savin'  a  drunk  now  an'  then, 
an'  a  gamble  w'en  I  had  the  money,  I've  lived  clean 
an'  straight  as  punchers  go.  But  that  was  onct  too 
often.  I  didn't  mean  to  shoot  the  sheriff,  noway." 

"  Then  what  happened?  "  asked  the  girl. 

There  was  something  so  boyish  and  frank  about 
the  young  man,  and  she  had  gone  through  so  much 
that  day,  she  had  seen  him  against  such  a  background 
of  utter  blackguardism  and  crime  in  the  person  of 
the  others,  that  she  scarcely  realized  the  enormity  of 
his  offense. 

"  Then,  I  broke  away  ^or  this  place.  It's  knowed 
all  over  the  West.  If  you  onct  git  in  here  you're 
safe  so  long  as  you  stay  here.  It's  well  named,  ain't 
it? — to  turn  a  paradise  into  Hell  Hole  by  interducin' 
men  like  them." 

"  Do  you  have  to  stay  here  all  your  life?  " 

"  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  stay  here  ten  minutes." 

"How  is  that?" 

"  I'm  goin'  to  take  you  back  to  the  camp." 

"  Couldn't  I  find  my  way  back  alone  ?  " 

"  Not  in  a  thousand  years." 

"And  after  that?" 

"  I'll  come  back  here." 

"  Oh,  don't,"  cried  the  girl. 

"  Where  else  kin  I  go?  If  I  left  here  I'd  git 
ketched  an'  jugged,  an'  tried,  an'  as  the  evidence  is 
plain,  I'd  swing  fer  it.  I'm  young  yit.  I  ain't  quite 
sick  of  this  place.  They  do  git  tired  of  it  sometimes 
an'  break  out  no  matter  wot  happens,  but  I  kin  stand 


54  The  Records 


it  a  little  longer.  Gosh !  it'll  be  horrible  when  you're 
gone — it  sure  will.  Old  Doc  Bell  said  it  had  been 
years — I  heard  him — since  he  had  spoken  to 
a  lady.  I  ain't  never  spoke  to  one  since 
I  left  my  mother,  before  this  mornin';  leastaways, 
no  one  like  you.  Don't  be  skeered,"  he  added,  as 
he  saw  a  strange  look  sweep  over  her  face,  "  I  won't 
hurt  you." 

"  I'm  not  in  the  least  alarmed,  Mr.  Carter;  I  trust 
you  implicitly." 

"  Say,  don't  call  me  '  Mr.  Carter;'  it  seems  strange 
like,  an'  as  if  you  was  a  judge  or  a  court,  or  some- 
thin'.  Everybody  calls  me  '  Kid.' ' 

"  Very  well,  then.  I'm  not  a  bit  afraid  of  you, 
Kid.  I  know  you  will  take  me  back  to  the  camp. 
You  were  ready  to  protect  me  a  moment  since." 

"  I'd  like  to  see  any  one  lay  a  finger  on  you ;  it 
would  a'  been  the  last  of  him,"  said  the  man  in  the 
most  matter-of-fact  way. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  girl. 

"  Say,  Miss,  put  it  there,"  he  said,  innocently  ex- 
tending his  hand. 

Without  a  moment's  hesitation  she  put  her  own 
hand  in  his.  He  shook  it  vigorously  a  second  time. 
By  this  time  they  had  come  to  the  curve  of  the  moun- 
tains where  the  pass  narrowed  and  where  the  watch- 
man was  stationed.  Hollis  stood  there,  gun  in  hand, 
looking  as  ugly  as  might  be  expected  from  one  of  his 
calibre. 

"  I've  got  to  leave  you  to  go  alone  a  bit,"  whispered 


Hmv  "  The  Kid"  Went  Over  the  Range    55 

Carter,  "  I've  got  to  take  keer  of  that  man.  Ride 
around  that  bend.  I'll  cover  you  an'  follow  you." 

The    girl    obediently   urged   her    horse    forward, 

f  although  all  her  terror  came  back  to  her  as   the 

'  animal  slowly  edged  its  way  around  the  narrow  trail 

over  the  yawning  abyss.     Behind  her,  with  his  back 

toward  her  and  his  face  toward  Hollis,  his  gun  in  his 

hand,  stumbled  Kid  Carter,  and  she  heard  him  say  as 

she  turned  the  corner: 

"  Don't  make  no  move  with  that  gun  of  yourn, 
Hollis,  or  I'll  let  daylight  through  you,  an'  they'll 
need  another  man  to  watch  this  pass." 

"  Are  you  goin'  down^  with  that  woman? "  asked 
Hollis. 

"  I  am;  wot's  that  to  you?  " 

"  Well,  you're  a  fool!  "  snarled  the  other  man. 
"  I  don't  need  to  waste  my  shot  on  you.  You'll  be 
dancin'  on  nothin'  in  Laramie  in  a  few  days." 

"  That's  my  business." 

"  Yours  and  the  sheriff's,"  laughed  the  other. 

"  An'  I  warns  you  to  stay  right  here  where  you 
are,  fer  the  present,"  said  Carter,  paying  no  atten- 
tion to  this  jeering  remark.  "  If  you  pokes  your 
nose  around  that  bend  of  rock,  I'll  make  a  target  of 
it.  An'  I'll  aim  to  kill,  too." 

Another  moment  and  he  slipped  around  the  cliff 
and  stood  by  her  side.  She  had  caught  only  a  por- 
tion of  the  conversation,  but  it  had  been  enough  for 
her. 

"  There  is  no  danger  to  you,  is  there? " 

"  No,"  answered  the  man,  lying  with  the  grace  and 


56  The  Records 


ease  of  a  gentleman.  "  They  don't  know  me  down 
there;  that  is,  they  don't  know  wot  I've  done  or  that 
I've  put  fer  this  country,  an'  if  you  don't  tell  'em, 
I  kin  git  back  all  right.'*' 

"If  I  don't  tell?  Is  that  kind?  I  trusted  you;  can't 
you  trust  me? " 

"  I  kin,"  answered  Carter,  instantly.  "  But  it's 
gittin'  late,  an'  we've  got  to  hurry  up.  We  won't  git 
to  that  camp  till  long  after  dark,  as  it  is.  I  wisht  I 
had  a  pony." 

He  seized  the  bridle,  and  pushed  rapidly  down  the 
trail. 

"  Why  don't  you  reform,  and  try  to  make  some- 
thing out  of  yourself?  "  asked  the  girl,  when  they 
had  crossed  the  dangerous  part  of  the  pass,  and  con- 
versation was  more  easy. 

"  Reform?  Where'd  I  go  to  reform?  Do  you 
think  anybody  could  reform  in  that  hole?" 

"  Can't  you  get  away  somewhere — where  people 
do  not  know  you?  " 

It  never  occurred  to  the  girl  that  she  was  actually 
making  herself  accessory  after  the  fact  to  a  murder, 
or,  at  any  rate,  to  the  murderer — compounding  a 
felony,  as  it  were! 

"  I  ain't  got  no  money  noway  to  help  me  along," 
continued  the  cow-boy.  "  The  whole  country  south 
between  the  railroad  an'  here  is  on  the  lookout  fer 
me." 

The  girl  put  her  hand  into  the  bosom  of  her  dress, 
and  pulled  out  a  small  purse.  Before  she  could  say 
a  word,  or  even  extend  her  hand,  he  stopped  her. 


How  "  The  Kid ' '  Went  Over  the  Range    57 

"Put  that  up!     I  ain't  that  low." 

"  I  know  you're  not,  but " 

"  How  much  hev  you  there  ? "  he  asked,  compre' 
hending  the  small  capacity  of  the  dainty  affair  in  a 
glance. 

"  Four  or  five  dollars,  but  I  can  get  plenty  more." 

"  That  wouldn't  carry  me  a  hundred  miles,  an'  if 
you  had  a  million  I  wouldn't  take  it.  I  ain't  that 
mean.  No  use  of  your  talkin',  Miss;  I  drawed  these 
cards,  an'  I've  got  to  play  this  hand  out,  wotever  it 
is." 

There  was  something  so  hopeless  about  the  situa- 
tion in  which  her  sympathies  were  so  profoundly  en- 
listed, that  the  girl  wras  filled  with  dismay.  There 
did  not  seem  to  be  any  subject  upon  which  they  could 
converse,  and  they  journeyed  forward  thereafter  in 
silence,  broken  only  by  his  warnings  and  her  infre- 
quent questions.  Carter  seemed  to  know  the  lay  of 
the  land  fairly  well. 

"  I  have  hunted  in  it,  hunted  them  fellers,"  he 
said,  in  answer  to  a  question.  "  In  '92  I  was  one  of 
a  posse  that  tried  to  clean  out  that  pocket  back  there 
— that  infernal  gang;  I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am — 
so  I  knows  this  country  pretty  well.  They  keep  an- 
other lookout  above  that  place  where  I  was  keepin' 
watch,  an'  we've  knowed  all  about  your  party  for 
days.  Some  of  the  gang  was  fer  goin'  down  an' 
raidin'  the  camp,  but  didn't  dare ;  there  was  too  many 
men  in  the  party." 

The  girl  shuddered  at  the  possibility  the  man's 
simple  speech  conjured  up  in  her  mind.  They  had 


58  The  Records 


been  so  entirely  peaceful  in  the  camp,  never  dream- 
ing of  danger  of  any  kind. 

The  two  had  progressed  several  miles,  when,  sud- 
denly coming  around  a  gigantic  butte,  which 
Josephine  thought  she  recognized,  and  which  was 
indeed  the  one  that  had  afforded  her  shelter  from 
the  cyclone,  they  had  a  fair  view  of  the  whole  east- 
ern slope  of  the  mountains.  Away  off  in  the  distance 
lay  the  white  tents  of  the  camp. 

It  was  now  late  in  the  afternoon  and  the  girl  could 
not  possibly  reach  it  before  dark;  but  she  instantly 
turned  to  Carter,  who  stood  by  her  side,  surveying 
the  prospect. 

"  There  is  the  camp,"  she  said. 

"  I  sees  it." 

"  I  can  make  my  way  there  now,  I  think,  without 
your  assistance." 

"  It'll  be  dark  long  before  you  git  there,"  re- 
turned the  man,  "  I'm  goin'  with  you." 

She  endeavored  to  dissuade  him,  but  could  not 
move  him.  They  went  forward  more  rapidly,  after 
that;  as  rapidly,  indeed,  as  the  man  could  keep  pace 
with  the  horse,  and  it  was  not  until  late  in  the  even- 
ing that  they  found  themselves  on  a  bit  of  level 
ground;  perhaps  half  a  mile  of  prairie,  with  the  trees 
at  the  other  end,  which  alone  shut  out  a  view  of  the 
camp.  Off  to  one  side,  they  could  hear  the  rush  of 
the  river.  Scarcely  had  they  progressed  a  quarter  of 
the  way  down  the  open,  when  a  little  party  of  horse- 
men entered  just  behind  them.  As  soon  as  these 


How  "  The  Kid"  Went  Over  the  Range    59 

caught  sight  of  Josephine  and  her  companion  they 
shouted  loudly  to  attract  their  attention. 

"  Oh!  "  cried  the  girl  turning  her  horse,  "  there's 
the  bishop !  "  as  she  recognized  a  little  stout  man  at 
the  head  of  the  party.  "  And  there's  Captain  Mc- 
Cauley  and — and  Mr.  Barnard." 

"Who  are  the  others?"  asked  Carter,  whipping 
out  his  gun.  He  stood  poised  on  his  foot  as  if  to 
run.  "  Those  are  your  friends ;  but  that  othetr 
man  an'  them  with  him;  I  reckon  they're  lookin'  fer 
me." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  That's  the  sheriff  of\  Johnson  county  an'  that's 
his  posse.  They've  been  huntin'  me  an'  your  friends 
hev  pressed  them  inter  service  to  hunt  you.  It's  all 
up  with  me,  but  I'm  glad  you're  safe." 

"But  you  will  be  taken!  "  cried  the  girl;  "they 
will " 

"  No  matter." 

"Wait!" 

Disengaging  her  foot  from  the  stirrups  she  sprang 
to  the  ground  instantly. 

"Take  my  horse!"  she  gasped.  "Quick!  You 
saved  me,  I'll  save  you." 

The  man  hesitated. 

"Go!"  she  urged. 

It  was  the  work  of  a  second  for  him  to  unbuckle 
the  saddle  and  throw  it  aside.  Gathering  the  reins  in 
his  hand  he  leaped  to  the  back  of  the  big  cavalry 
horse. 

"  Good-bye,"  cried  the  girl  lifting  her  hand. 


60  The  Records 


They  were  very  near  now,  but  he  pulled  off  his 
sombrero,  bent  low  over  the  saddle,  seized  her  hand 
and  pressed  a  long  kiss  upon  it. 

"  If  I'd  'a'  met  you  afore,"  he  cried,  "  I  might 
hev  been  a  different  man." 

The  party  was  close  at  hand.  Still  holding  his 
cocked  pistol,  Carter  put  the  spur  into  the  horse. 
He  started  off  on  a  gallop  instantly  toward  the  other 
end  of  the  glade. 

"  Josephine !  "  cried  the  bishop,  as  they  ap- 
proached, "  are  you  safe?  We  have  been  searching 
for  you  all  day." 

"  Entirely  so,"  answered  the  girl,  "  thanks  to  that 
man,"  pointing  to  the  rapidly  disappearing  figure. 

"  Who  is  he?  "  asked  Barnard  jealously  as  he  dis- 
mounted and  took  her  hand.  "  I've  been  wild 
with " 

"  By  gosh,  I  know  him !  "  exclaimed  the  sheriff. 
"That's  my  man.  That's  Kid  Carter!  him  we've 
come  to  ketch,  boys.  After  him!  " 

He  lifted  his  Winchester  as  he  spoke,  and  levelled 
it  at  the  fleeing  man.  The  girl  rushed  toward  the 
sheriff  frantically  waving  her  hands  and  screaming. 
The  startled  horse  jumped  aside,  the  gun  went  off 
and  the  bullet  sped  harmlessly  down  the  valley.  But, 
by  this  time,  other  rifles  were  cracking;  she  could 
not  attend  to  them  all,  and  one  shot  hit  the  old  troop 
horse.  He  jumped  into  the  air  and  fell.  Carter, 
revolver  in  hand,  was  off  him  in  a  minute,  making 
for  the  woods  near  the  river  bank  amid  a  fusilade  of 
bullets.  Josephine  Carter,  who  had  stood  appalled  at 


How  "  The  Kid"  Went  Over  the  Range    Gl 

first,  now  ran  into  the  open  between  the  posse  and 
the  fugitive,  her  arms  extended  as  if  to  protect  him. 
She  might  as  well  have  tried  to  check  a  whirlwind, 
for  they  brushed  her  aside  without  a  second's  hesita- 
tion, and  galloped  forward,  firing  as  they  ran.  The 
cruel  joy  of  a  man  hunt  was  with  them.  There  were 
good  shots  in  that  posse.  Carter  suddenly  staggered 
and  fell  just  as  they  reached  him.  He  lay  on  the 
ground,  his  revolver  still  clenched  in  his  hand. 

"  Be  careful,  boys,"  said  the  sheriff,  riding  up; 
"  he's  got  his  gun  with  him  yet." 

"  You  needn't  be  afraid,"  gasped  out  the  Kid, 
dropping  the  weapon,  "  I  won't  shoot.  I  don't  want 
no  more  blood  on  my  hands.  Where's  the  lady?  " 

"  Here,"  answered  Josephine,  forcing  her  way 
through  the  men;  "  are  you  much  hurt?  " 

"I'm. done  for,  this  time.  Say,  I'm  glad  I  don't 
hev  to  go  back  to  that  place." 

"  What  does  he  mean?  "  asked  the  sheriff. 

"  That  pocket  in  the  mountains,  you  know,"  said 
the  girl,  stooping  down  and  slipping  her  arm  under 
the  dying  man's  head;  "  I  ventured  in  there  in  the 
storm " 

"  Good  gosh!  have  you  been  in  Hell  Hole,"  said 
the  sheriff,  "  and  got  out  alive?  " 

"  Yes,  thanks  to  him.  He  claimed  me,  and 
brought  me  here  at  the  risk  of  his  life." 

"  Kid,"  said  the  sheriff,  stooping  down  and  taking 
the  man's  hand,  "  that  was  white  of  you.  If  I'd 
known  that,  I'll  be  blamed  if  I'd  'a'  shot  at  you! 
Eh,  boys?  " 


62  The  Records 


"  It's  just  as  well,"  said  the  Kid,  faintly.  "  Thank 
you,  ma'am;  I'm  glad  I  done  it.  Is  that  the  bishop 
you  was  talkin'  about?  I  have  been  a  bad  boy, 
bishop.  But  seein's  I'm  knocked  out  this  time,  don't 
you  think  I'll  git  a  show  when  I've  gone  over  the 
range? " 

"  You  gave  your  life  for  another,  for  this  girl, 
my  boy,"  said  the  old  man,  kneeling  down  by  him. 
"  It  was  a  sacrifice,  an  atonement.  '  Greater  love,' 
said  Jesus,  t  hath  no  man  than  this,  that  a  man  lay 
down  his  life  for  his  friends.' ' 

"  An'  I  didn't  shoot  the  posse  when  I  might  hev. 
I  wanted  as  clean  a  hand  as  I  could  carry  now.  I'm 
sorry  to  have  all  this  unpleasant  business  a-dooin' 
afore  you  miss;  I  sure  am.  It's  growing  dark  mighty 
sudden,  ain't  it?  It  must  be  gittin'  late.  I'm  not 
afraid  to  die  if  you  think  I  hev  a  chance." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  cried  the  girl,  "  I'm  sure  of  it." 

"  I've  been  in  hell  onct  to-day,"  he  gasped  out, 
"  an*  in  heaven,  too."  He  smiled  up  at  her. 
"Would  you  lemme  kiss  your  hand  ag'in  afore ?" 

The  girl  glanced  interrogatively  at  Barnard. 
There  was  no  need  of  explanation  between  these 
two  at  this  time.  She  knew  that  he  loved  her  and 
he  knew  that  she  loved  him,  and  the  petty  quarrel 
was  composed  in  the  shadow  of  the  death  angel's 
wing.  Then  she  bent  her  head,  lifted  Carter's  head 
a  little  higher  and  kissed  him  on  the  lips.  The  smile 
broadened — it  was  almost  a  laugh — then  stopped 
suddenly.  It  was  as  if  a  hand  had  been  passed  over 
his  face  and  smoothed  it  out. 


Hmv  "  The  Kid"  Went  Over  the  Range     63 

She  laid  his  head  back  on  the  sod,  and  rose  to  her 
feet.  The  bishop  still  knelt,  praying  in  the  twilight; 
the  others  stood  around,  their  hats  in  their  hands. 

But  poor  Kid  Carter  had  gone  over  the  range. 


Third  Record 

HER   BIRTHDAY* 

Romance  had  never  ceased  to  play  a  part — and  a 
large  one — in  the  career  of  Edith  Gordon.  The 
one  regret  of  her  life  was  that  John  Gordon,  her 
husband,  had  become  so  intensely  practical.  It  had 
been  "  Jack  "  in  those  days  when  the  blood  burned 
and  the  heart  was  prodigal  with  vows  and  protesta- 
tions; but  that  time  was  long  past,  and  the  erstwhile 
dashing  "  Jack  "  had  developed  into  the  stout,  some- 
what prosaic,  entirely  unromantic  "  John,"  a  man 
eminently  unsuited  to  play  Romeo  to  Edith's  Juliet. 

Edith  herself  had  not  stood  still — outwardly — 
during  the  advancing  years,  yet  she  had  not  lost  a 
great  deal.  While,  of  course,  the  freshness  of  youth 
no  longer  shone  in  her  face,  the  classic  features, 
about  which  "  Jack  "  had  been  wont  to  rave,  but 
which  "  John  "  now  viewed  with  such  complacency, 
had  been  left  unravaged  by  the  course  of  time.  The 
gloss  and  sheen  were  gone  from  the  abundant  chest- 
nut hair  that  waved  above  her  sweet  low  brow,  but 
the  soft  light  of  the  somewhat  premature  gray  crown 
of  advancing  years  provided  a  substitute  scarcely  less 
charming. 

Her  figure,  too,  was  not  quite  what  it  had  been. 

•  By  courtesy  of  "The  Delineator." 

5 


66  The  Records 


The  fulness  of  a  ripe — Edith  thought  sometimes 
with  dismay  that  it  was  a  ripening — development 
of  womanhood  had  overwhelmed  the  slender  curves 
of  girlhood;  but  the  result  was  still  satisfactory,  es- 
pecially when  aided  by  those  mysterious  devices  by 
which  feminine  humanity  successfully  conceals  the 
overloading  tendency  of  ageing  flesh.  No  greater 
insult  could  be  offered  Edith  Gordon  than  to  say 
that  she  was  getting  "  fat."  No  one  in  the  house 
said  it  either,  although  ill-natured  people  outside 
sometimes  did  not  refrain  from  such  "  slander  and 
evil  speaking;"  but  Edith's  heart  was  as  young,  as 
fresh,  as  verdant  as  ever;  her  mind  was  as  imagina- 
tive, as  subtly  apprehensive  of  the  mysterious,  the 
beautiful,  the  heroic,  as  it  had  been  when  she  was 
a  girl. 

In  that  sort  of  development  she  had  stood  still. 
It  was  a  never-ending  source  of  grief  to  her  that 
John — she  hated  that  name,  and  never  called  him 
that  except  in  public;  in  private  it  was  often  "  Jack, 
darl,"  or  something  else  equally  affectionate — that 
John  was  so  changed,  so  unresponsive,  so  unroman- 
tic.  Why,  he  had  actually  declared  that  he  would 
rather  be  comfortable  in  his  clothes  than  look  well 
in  them  any  day  of  the  year.  That  he  didn't  really 
care  enough  about  growing  stout  to  diet  himself! 
That  nothing  on  earth  would  induce  him  to  "bant," 
and  as  for  exercise,  he  abhorred  it!  He  was  never 
so  happy  as  in  a  shabby  old  dressing  gown  and  a 
disreputable  pair  of  slippers,  by  his  own  fireside,  with 
Edith,  more  beautiful  than  ever  he  averred — with 


Her  Birthday  67 


truth  in  his  heart — opposite  him,  and  the  children 
of  this  singular  pair,  six  in  number,  clustered  around 
them. 

But  after  all,  John  was  a  good  sort  of  a  man.  He 
was  the  best  of  husbands  and  absurdly  devoted  to 
Edith  in  his  own  quiet  way.  He  really  never  left  her 
if  he  could  help  it.  When  he  went  away  from  the 
city  on  business  he  always  took  her  with  him.  He 
delighted  to  see  her  beautifully  dressed,  and  while 
he  sometimes  mocked,  he  inwardly  approved  of  all 
her  efforts  to  maintain  and  retain  the  charms  which 
had  won  him  to  her  affections  so  many  years  before. 
But  he  was  not  demonstrative.  ~No  contingencies 
that  could  arise  would  prevent  him  from  eating  his 
dinner.  Edith  was  furiously  jealous  at  times  of  the 
children,  who  moiled  and  toiled  about  him  and  over 
him,  and  to  whom  he  frequently  addressed  those  pet 
names  and  endearing  terms  which  she  had  once 
thought  were  her  own  peculiar  property. 

But  she  never  had  the  slightest  chance  to  be 
jealous  of  anyone  else.  She  sometimes  longed  for 
him  to  give  her  an  opportunity  to  rise  out  of  the 
placid  humdrum  consciousness  of  his  steady  affec- 
tion; and  in  more  daring  flights  of  imagination  she 
frequently  wished  that  in  some  way,  without  doing 
anything  wrong  or  compromising  herself  in  any  way, 
she  could  make  John  ragingly  jealous;  see  him  lose 
a  meal  or  two  and  get  thin. 

But  nothing  happened.  She  often  thought,  with 
a  sigh,  that  all  the  romance  of  her  life  was  past; 
there  was  nothing  before  her  but  to  live  on  in  this 


68  The  Records 


contented,  peaceful,  uneventful  way  until  the  end. 
If  Edith  had  enjoyed  a  wider  experience  of  life — 
and  husbands — she  would  have  known  that  she  was 
blessed  almost  above  women. 

John  honestly  tried,  at  times,  to  rise  to  the  meas- 
ure of  her  requirements.  For  instance,  he  never 
consciously  forgot  an  anniversary.  There  were  more 
anniversaries  in  Edith's  calendar,  too,  than  Saints' 
Days  in  the  Church  year.  Long  ago  John  had 
learned  manfully  to  face  the  consequences  of  those 
frightful  lapses  of  memory  which  confronted  him  in 
the  presence  of  Edith  with  this  question  trembling 
upon  her  lips: 

"  John  Gordon,  do  you  know  what  day  this  is?  " 

When  Edith  asked  that  question  she  was  not  seek- 
ing information  as  to  the  day  of  the  week  or  the 
month.  She  wanted  John  to  remember  that  it  was 
on  such  a  day  as  this  that  he  had  first  met  her  at 
so-and-so's  house.  She  wanted  John  to  remember 
every  detail  of  that  meeting,  which  her  own  mar- 
velous imaginative  faculties  could  reproduce  with 
absolute  accuracy.  Everything  that  ever  happened, 
that  was  connected  with  their  courtship  and  early 
life,  was  an  anniversary,  and  John  really  remem- 
bered them  remarkably  well.  He  was  a  very  busy 
man.  He  had  a  great  many  cares.  The  needs  of 
his  growing  family  were  sufficient  to  require  his  un- 
divided attention.  Once  in  a  while,  he  forgot,  but 
not  often. 

During  a  crisis  in  his  business,  which  had  filled 
him  with  apprehension,  on  a  certain  morning  Edith 


Her  Birthday  69 


came  down  to  breakfast  arrayed  with  extraordinary 
bravery.  She  wore  a  new  shirt-waist  of  the  color 
and  style  which  John  affected.  In  the  centre  of  the 
table  was  a  great  bunch  of  chrysanthemums,  flowers 
associated  with  their  wedding  day,  which  had  hap- 
pened to  fall  a  few  days  after  Edith's  twenty-second 
birthday.  She  had  made  an  heroic  resolution  before 
she  descended  to  the  dining-room  that  she  would  not 
call  John's  attention  to  the  fact  that  that  day  was 
her  birthday — in  words,  that  is ;  but  she  had  been  un- 
able to  restrain  herself  from  indicating  in  some  way 
the  festive  character  of  the  day.  Not  that  it  was 
particularly  festive  for  Edith,  either,  for  no  woman 
approaches  her  fortieth  birthday  with  feelings  of 
equanimity,  but  that  would  not  matter  to  John,  who 
was  accustomed  to  say  that  the  older  he  got  the  hap- 
pier he  was;  and  he,  at  least,  ought  to  rise  to  the 
occasion. 

And  John  had  risen  to  the  occasion,  too.  The 
birthday  was  one  of  the  things  he  had  not  forgotten. 
He  had  previously  provided  her  liberally,  in  accord- 
ance with  his  means,  with  the  jewels  which  looked  so 
pretty  upon  her  beautiful  hands;  and  on  this  occasion 
he  had  decided  to  add  to  her  already  large  collec- 
tion, what  she  had  long  coveted,  a  pearl.  A  fine 
specimen  which  he  had  purchased  the  night  before, 
at  that  very  moment  lay  in  his  pocket.  But  John 
gave  no  outward  sign.  The  Stock  Market  was  in 
a  feverish  condition,  and  he  buried  himself  in  the 
paper  the  moment  he  sat  down.  John  and  Edith 
breakfasted  alone  with  William.  The  other  children 


70  The  Record* 


had  their  breakfast  earlier  and  had  gone  to  school 
when  these  two  came  down.  William  was  the  young- 
est. He  was  "  goin'  on  four/'  as  he  proudly  said, 
which  meant  that  he  had  just  passed  his  third  birth- 
day. He  was  an  observant  young  man.  Nothing 
out  of  the  common  escaped  his  youthful  eye. 

"  Mamma,"  he  asked  at  last,  "  why  are  you  all 
dressed  up?" 

His  father,  who  was  turning  the  paper  at  that 
moment,  fortunately  caught  this  remark  and  looked 
over  at  his  wife. 

"  Well,  Edith,  I  must  say  that  you  look  very  well, 
indeed,  this  morning,  my  dear.  What's  the  occa- 
sion?" 

Edith  blushed  violently  and  her  heart  throbbed  in 
spite  of  herself  at  the  question.  She  temporized, 
however.  The  possibilities  of  the  situation  were  so 
great  that  she  wanted  to  enjoy  them  a  little  longer. 
Instead  of  the  usual  retort, 

"  Why,  John  Gordon,  don't  you  know  what  day 
it  is? "  she  replied  lamely  enough.  "  Why — er — 
nothing  particular." 

"  And  the  flowers,  too,"  said  John,  "  they're  gor- 
geous. They  always  remind  me  of  our  wedding  day," 
he  added  swiftly,  knowing  that  this  was  an  exceed- 
ingly safe  remark  to  make;  and  then — will  it  be  be- 
lieved?— the  odious  man  calmly  went  back  to  his 
paper  and  coffee. 

Edith  stopped  eating  at  once  and  stared  at  him  in 
silence.  Could  it  be  possible?  He  had  forgotten 


Her  Birthday  71 


many  things,  but  never  her  birthday!  William  came 
to  the  rescue. 

"  Why  don't  you  eat  your  bekfast,  mamma?"  he 
remarked. 

Again  this  caught  the  attention  of  John. 

"What's  the  matter,  Edith?"  he  said.  "Aren't 
you  well?" 

"  Who,  I?  Perfectly  well,"  returned  Edith  with 
rising  indignation,  immediately  beginning  to  attack 
her  waffle  furiously,  although  every  mouthful  choked 
her. 

John  had  finished  his  breakfast.  He  excused  him- 
self, rose  from  the  table,  caught  William's  chubby 
face  in  his  two  hands,  and  after  carefully  wiping 
the  fringe  of  molasses  from  around  his  mouth, 
pressed  a  long,  exuberant  kiss  upon  the  baby  face; 
then  he  stepped  over  to  Edith,  laid  his  hand  upon  her 
shoulder,  turned  her  cheek  up  to  him,  kissed  her 
softly,  in  what,  it  must  be  admitted,  was  rather  a 
matter-of-fact  manner,  and  went  out. 

Edith  heard  the  door  close  behind  him.  It  was 
too  much.  She  rose  from  the  table,  unheeding  the 
baby's  protests — he  objected  very  much  to  being  left 
alone — and  ran  upstairs  to  her  room.  She  shut  the 
door,  threw  herself  face  downward  on  the  bed,  and 
sobbed  out  her  grief  and  disappointment  in  an  agony 
of  tears. 

William,  though  he  did  not  like  solitude,  disliked 
emptiness  the  more.  He  stayed  at  the  table  until, 
with  the  assistance  of  the  maid,  he  had  disposed  of  a 
wonderful  quantity  of  cocoa  and  waffles,  there  being 


72  The  Records 


no  mamma  present  to  interdict  his  consumption; 
then  he  clambered  up  the  stairs,  opened  the  door 
of  his  mother's  room  and  entered. 

"  What's  the  matter,  mamma?  "  he  said,  "  why  are 
you  cryin'?" 

"  Oh,  William,  my  precious  baby,  mamma's  only 
comfort,"  wailed  Edith,  stretching  out  her  arms 
toward  the  chubby  boy,  "  come  here  to  me,  my  little 
son.  Mamma  is  so  miserable.  It's  her  birthday,  and 
— and — papa  didn't  remember.  Mamma  is  forty 
years  old  to-day — that's  bad  enough.  She's  so  lone- 
some, so  unhappy!  No  one  even  wished  her  '  many 
happy  returns.' ' 

"  I'll  do  it,  mamma,"  said  William,  getting  up  on 
the  bed  and  nestling  down  by  her.  "  Won't  you  have 
a  birfday  cake  wiv  cannels  on  it  like  I  did? " 

"No,  nothing,  nothing!  Nobody  cares  for  mam- 
ma's birthday.  She's  an  old  woman  now!  So  lone- 
some, her  heart's  broken!" 

"  Won't  papa  give  you  somethin'  ?" 

"  He's  forgotten  all  about  it,  darling.  He  doesn't 
care  for  mamma  any  more." 

Edith  was  so  absorbed  in  her  grief,  and  William 
was  so  absorbed  in  Edith,  that  they  did  not  hear  the 
hall  door  open.  They  did  not  mark  John's  rather 
heavy  tread  upon  the  stairs,  consequently  they  were 
both  greatly  surprised  when  the  door  opened  and  he 
stood  before  them,  an  expression  of  amazement  on 
his  face  at  the  sight  of  the  two  figures,  for  the  con- 
tagion of  his  mother's  misery  had  been  too  much 
for  the  susceptible  infant,  and  while  she  was  sob- 


Her  Birthday  73 


bing  softly  he  was  roaring  with  all  the  vociferous- 
ness  of  childhood. 

"  Why,  Edith!  William!"  cried  John  in  astonish- 
ment, "  what's  the  matter?" 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  Edith  sat  up,  a  flash  of 
hope  pervading  her  being.  He  had  remembered, 
then,  and  had  come  back!  All  would  be  well.  But 
his  first  words  undeceived  her. 

"  I  left  those  vouchers  I  was  examining  last 
night,"  continued  John,  '  and  came  back  for  them. 
'I  find  you  in  tears.  My  dear  girl,  what  is  the  mat- 
ter?" 

John  was  unconsciously  adroit.  Edith  loved  to 
be  called  his  "  dear  girl "  and  John  knew  it.  This 
time,  however,  the  words  did  not  mollify  her.  Since 
he  did  not  know,  she  resolved  he  never  should.  She 
determined  that  hereafter  her  birthday  should  pass 
by  unnoticed.  She  felt  the  luxury  of  martyrdom 
stealing  over  her,  which  was  some  compensation  for 
her  misery.  She  dried  her  tears  as  best  she  could 
and  looked  disdainfully  and  coldly  at  him. 

"  Nothing,  nothing  at  all,"  she  said. 

"  Dere  is,  too,"  said  William,  sturdily. 

"William!"  said  Edith  sharply,  "I  forbid  you 
to  speak.  Don't  say  a  word!" 

Generally  John  did  not  interfere  between  Edith 
and  the  children.  This  time  he  broke  that  wise  rule. 
He  drew  a  nickel  from  his  pocket. 

"  Bill,"  he  said,  holding  up  the  coin,  "  come  here." 

In  a  second  that  infant  was  in  his  arms,  his  face 
shining  through  his  tears. 


74  The  Records 


"  What's  the  matter  with  mamma,  son? "  asked 
John. 

"  Willie,  dear,"  cried  his  mother  imploringly,  but 
the  allurement  of  the  nickel  was  too  great  even  for 
his  filial  affection. 

"  Papa,  don't  you  know  what  day  it  is?"  asked  the 
smiling  William. 

"  Great  Heavens!"  thought  John  in  consternation, 
"  have  the  children  begun  to  ask  that  infernal  ques- 
tion, too?" 

He  racked  his  brain  for  a  possible  neglected  anni- 
versary. 

"  Well,  what  day  is  it?  "  he  asked  finally. 

"  Why,  it's  mamma's  birfday,"  said  William  tri- 
umphantly. 

John  turned  open-mouthed  to  Edith.  She  had 
risen  and  was  confronting  him  like  an  angry  goddess. 
The  flash  of  indignation  upon  her  cheek,  the  tear 
that  sparkled  in  her  eye — and  Edith  was  one  of  the 
few  women  who  look  pretty  in  tears — made  her 
fairly  adorable.  He  thought  she  had  never  appeared 
more  charming,  even  when  she  was  only  sixteen. 
For  an  instant  his  admiration  shone  in  his  glance, 
and  the  unerring  Edith  was  quick  to  detect  it.  There 
was  an  opportunity  for  him  to  get  into  her  good 
graces  once  more.  Alas!  Nemesis  must  have  been 
guiding  him,  for  what  did  John  do?  His  admira- 
tion faded  into  an  expression  of  amusement.  He 
snickered,  he  chuckled,  he  laughed.  He  sank  down 
in  the  nearest  chair  and  roared.  Edith  had  never 
been  so  furiously  angry  before.  This  was  adding 


"Well,  what  day  is  it?"— Page  74 


Her  Birthday  75 


insult  to  injury.  So  soon  as  she  could  make  herself 
heard,  she  began, 

"  For  my  part,  John  Gordon,  I  see  nothing  about 
which  to  laugh.  You  have  forgotten  my  birthday, 
a  thing  you  have  never  done  before  since  we  have 
been  married.  I  dressed  myself  to  please  you.  I 
put  those  chrysanthemums  on  the  table  because  they 
reminded  you  always  of  our  wedding  day  and  my 
birthday.  I  had  the  breakfast  you  liked,  too — and 
— and  you  never  noticed  anything!  If  it  hadn't  been 
for  the  baby  you  wouldn't  have  known  whether  I 
was  dressed  or  not.  I  even  forgot  my  prejudice  and 
ordered  that  horrid  vulgar  liver  and  bacon — a  com- 
bination I  detest — for  you  especially.  I  don't  be- 
lieve you  even  knew  what  you  were  eating!  And 
then,  when  you  came  back,  I  thought  you  had  re- 
membered, and  had  come  to  wish  me  many  happy 
returns  and — and ' 

"  But,  my  dear  Edith " 

"  Don't  say  a  word !  I  never  was  so  unhappy  in 
my  life !  It  is  quite  evident  that  you  do  not  care  for 
me  now  that  I  am  getting  old.  All  you  think  of  is 
comfort,  comfort  and  your  children.  And  I'm  forty 
and  married  to  a  man  who  has  ceased  to  love  me  at 
all.  It's  bad  enough  to  be  forty  without  being  so 
neglected  and  so  lonesome !  " 

Here  Edith  put  her  head  down  in  her  hands  and 
began  to  cry.  John  was  sober  enough  now,  although 
the  remains  of  his  amusement  were  plainly  visible. 
It  was  William  who  broke  in. 


76  The  Records 


"  Papa,  you're  bad  to  my  mamma,  I  don't  love 
you  any  more." 

"  William,"  said  John  gravely,  "  ask  mamma  the 
date  of  her  birthday." 

"  Thoughtless,  cruel,  forgetful  man,"  sobbed 
Edith,  "  he  can't  even  remember  the  date.  It's  No- 
vember 5th,  if  you  will  have  it." 

"  I  thought  so,"  said  John,  "  and  Edith,  my  dear- 
est wife,  do  you  realize  that  to-day  is  the  third  of 
November,  and  your  birthday  isn't  until  day  after 
to-morrow." 

"  John  Gordon,  you  are  deceiving  me  It's  one  of 
your  ways  of  getting  out " 

"  Look  at  the  calendar,  my  dear,"  said  John. 
"You  see?" 

Poor  Edith!  She  was  certainly  two  days  ahead. 
She  stood  looking  at  John  in  hopeless  dismay.  John 
was  making  a  herculean  effort  to  restrain  his  mirth. 
He  tried  valiantly,  but  it  was  impossible.  Edith 
didn't  know  whether  to  continue  weeping  or  join  in 
his  laughter;  it  was  all  so  fearfully  unromantic,  this 
whole  proceeding.  William  was  also  waiting  to  see 
which  way  the  wind  was  blowing.  Finally  Edith 
caught  the  infection  of  her  husband's  humor  and 
joined  in  his  glee.  William's  high-pitched  staccato 
trill  made  an  appropriate  obligato  for  the  merry  con- 
jugal duet. 

"  Well,  now  the  thing  has  come  out,"  said  John 
in  his  matter-of-fact  way,  feeling  in  his  waistcoat 
pocket,  "  since  you  have  arranged  this  day  for  your 


Her  Birthday  77 


birthday,  I  might  as  well  give  you  the  present  I  was 
keeping  for  you,"  handing  her  a  little  packet. 

With  eager  fingers,  she  tore  it  open,  disclosing 
the  radiant  pearl.  There  was  a  little  slip  of  paper 
enclosed  in  the  circlet  of  the  ring. 

"  Eead  it,"  said  John. 

"  To  Edith,  pearl  among  wives,  from  her  lover  and 
husband" 

Yes,  and  the  name  signed  to  it  was  not  "  John," 
but  "  Jack,"  and  there  he  stood,  fat,  unromantic, 
rather  indifferent  as  to  dress,  blushing  like  a  girl. 

Edith  flung  her  arms  around  his  neck,  kissed  him 
enthusiastically,  then  /held  him  at  arm's  length. 

"  John  Gordon,"  she  said  severely,  "  you  are  really 
just  too  provoking  for  anything!  How  unromantic 
of  you.  Now  you  have  gone  and  spoiled  my  birthday 
by  giving  me  my  present  to-day!" 


Fourth   Record 

"TO    HER    WHO    LOVED    HIM    BEST 
OF   ALL"* 

When  "Evidenced  by  Service  "  was  published  it 
met  with  an  instant  and  overwhelming  success.  His 
friends — and  in  truth  most  readers  were  that,  for 
he  was  a  popular  author  and  had  written  much — 
finished  its  perusal  wit]a  three  states  of  emotion  striv- 
ing for  the  mastery — surprise,  admiration,  and  re- 
gret. His  other  books,  while  they  had  all  been  hon- 
est, wholesome,  pleasing  novels,  had  not  led  them 
to  expect  anything  at  once  so  deep,  so  brilliant,  so 
subtle  as  this.  In  each  human  being,  it  has  been 
said,  there  is  at  least  one  real  book,  one  real  romance. 
This  was  his. 

The  conception  of  the  novel  was  so  startling  and 
original,  it  was  worked  out  on  such  strong  and  un- 
usual lines,  the  characters  were  so  finely  drawn,  and 
the  affection  of  the  woman  who  filled  the  centre  of 
the  story  was  evidenced  in  so  strange  and  powerful  a 
way,  by  an  act  of  unprecedented  service  to,  and  sac- 
rifice for,  her  lover  that  his  warmest  admirers  even, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  public  generally,  were  lost  in 
admiration.  The  critics,  even  the  great  ones  whose 
words  have  weight,  praised  the  book  without  a  dis- 

*  By  Courtesy  of  "  The  Century  Magazine." 


80  The  Records 


senting  voice;  the  presses  put  forth  edition  after 
edition,  and  the  book  stores  could  hardly  keep  pace 
with  the  eager  buyers.  It  was  the  literary  sensation 
not  only  of  the  day,  and  of  the  season,  but  of  the 
year. 

The  regret  of  it  all  was  that  he  was  no  longer  alive 
to  enjoy  his  belated  but  unequivocal  triumph.  He 
had  been  an  old-fashioned  author  in  many  respects, 
never  making  use  of  a  secretary  or  a  typewriter 
for  instance,  but  writing  his  books  laboriously  out 
in  longhand.  They  found  him  dead  one  morning 
before  his  desk,  his  head  bowed  upon  his  left  arm, 
and  that  arm  upon  the  manuscript  of  this  last  story. 
The  pen  was  still  clasped  in  his  hand.  He  was  indif- 
ferent now  to  praise  or  blame,  success  or  failure. 
He  had  been  a  hard,  persistent  worker  with  his  busy 
pen  all  his  life,  and  it  was  a  great  pity  that  success 
came  so  late — too  late. 

The  last  words  that  he  had  written  had  been  traced 
upon  the  top  sheet  of  paper,  blank  save  for  this  sig- 
nificant line  of  dedication: 
"  TO  HER  WHO  LOVES  ME  BEST  OF  ALL." 

There  was  no  explanation  vouchsafed  as  to  who 
was  in  his  mind  when  he  wrote,  not  the  faintest  clue 
anywhere  by  which  the  identity  of  that  unknown 
woman  could  be  discovered.  There  was  some  little 
speculation  about  it  among  the  critics  for  a  time,  some 
natural  curiosity  in  the  public  mind  at  first;  but 
the  matter  soon  ceased  to  interest  in  the  larger  ap- 
peal to  discussion  made  by  the  wonderful  book  itself, 
and  the  question  dropped  from  the  view  of  every- 


"  To  Her  Who  Loved  Him  Best  of  Air      81 

one  except  five  women.  To  them  it  became  of  vital 
moment  indeed,  for  each  one  of  the  five  loved  him, 
and  the  question,  "Is  it  I?"  was  at  once  of  serious 
import  so  'soon  as  it  was  formulated  by  five  unde- 
cided jealous  hearts. 

It  so  happened  that  not  one  of  them  had  seen  the 
dedication  until  the  book  had  been  published,  for 
the  manuscript  had  been  sent  by  his  literary  execu- 
tors to  the  publisher  without  inspection  or  revision 
by  any  member  of  his  family  or  by  any  of  the  others. 
In  one  way  or  another  the  book  came  into  the  hands 
of  each  one  of  them  about  the  same  time,  and  the 
five  women  faced  the  ^problem  without  reading  the 
book — that  was  a  secondary  matter — and  strove  to 
solve  it  at  the  same  instant  from  the  dedication 
alone. 

The  first  to  consider  it  was  an  old,  bowed,  white- 
haired  woman  of  threescore  and  ten  years — a  woman 
bereft  of  her  only  son,  who  sat  alone  waiting  the  end. 
She  wondered,  at  first  dully  and  then  with  awakening 
apprehension,  if  she  had  been  in  his  thoughts  as  he 
had  traced  the  words.  What  love  is  there  that  hu- 
manity may  feel  that  equals  a  mother's  love?  She 
had  borne  him;  in  her  bosom  he  had  lain;  she  had 
carried  him  in  her  arms  as  a  child;  her  knee  had  been 
his  altar  in  infancy.  Over  him,  around  him,  about 
him,  her  fostering  care  had  ever  been  thrown.  She 
had  trained  him,  developed  him.  It  was  largely  due 
to  her  labor  and  love  that  he  was  what  he  was. 

There  had  been  other  children  born  to  her.  One 
6 


82  The  Records 


by  one  they  had  gone.  He  only  had  been  left  alive. 
To  him  only  had  she  turned  at  last.  Did  he  mean 
her?  Had  this  great  work  that  crowned  his  life 
been  dedicated  to  her?  Surely  none  had  loved  him 
as  she.  By  right,  then,  she  could  claim  it  from  all 
the  world — from  wife,  from  child,  from  friend,  she 
thought  with  the  quiet  but  exceeding  bitter  jealousy 
of  the  old. 

"  Evidenced  by  Service."  She  read  the  title  over 
again.  She  had  scarcely  noted  it  before.  What  did 
that  mean?  "Was  it  love  that  was  evidenced?  How 
stood  she  there?  Had  she  loved  him  by  that  test? 
Had  she  served  him  in  the  end  as  in  the  beginning? 
Had  her  devotion  wavered  or  faltered?  Was  there 
a  taint  of  self  in  it?  Her  conscience  smote  her 
at  the  thoughts.  He  had  been  worried,  harassed, 
straitened  in  many  ways  in  these  latter  years.  She 
had  seen  it,  she  had  known  it.  Had  she  aggravated 
his  trouble?  Had  she  done  what  she  could  for  him, 
had  she  given  or  demanded?  There  had  been  quar- 
rels, causeless,  foolish,  jealous  quarrels  with  his  wife, 
dissensions  between  them  on  account  of  him.  Had 
it  been  her  fault?  Had  she  shown  the  spirit  of  love, 
of  comity,  of  self-sacrifice?  Had  she  thought  of  him 
or  herself  first?  Had  she  striven  to  make  him  happy? 
Was  it  she,  after  all?  His  look  reproached  her  be- 
cause there  was  only  love  and  consideration  for  her 
in  it — no  reproof  for  his  mother.  She  sat  staring 
aimlessly  before  her  in  the  silence,  so  old,  so  lonely, 
the  book  neglected  in  her  lap.  Was  it  she?  O  God, 
was  it  she? 


."  To  Her  Who  Loved  Him  Best  of  Air      83 

What  of  another  woman?  He  had  been  fond  of 
quoting  to  his  wife,  she  now  remembered,  that  little 
word  of  Scripture,  "  A  prophet  is  not  without  honor, 
save  in  his  own  country."  And  to-day  that  broken- 
hearted wife  sat  alone  before  his  desk  in  the  study 
on  the  top  floor  of  their  home,  which  she  had  so  in- 
frequently visited  when  he  lived  and  worked  there, 
but  which  now  seemed  the  only  room  in  that  lonely 
house  in  which  she  could  bear  to  abide,  for  there 
everything  spoke  to  her  of  him.  She  lifted  the  book 
to  her  lips  and  confidently  appropriated  to  herself 
the  dedication.  He  had  thought  of  her  then.  Thank 
God !  Yes.  In  those  Closing  hours,  in  that  last  night 
before  he  went  to  sleep  to  awake  elsewhere,  he  had 
thought  of  her,  of  her.  She  kissed  the  page  with 
a  passionate  intensity.  No  one  had  loved  him  as  she. 
He  must  have  known  it. 

But  stop.  Doubt  came  into  her  heart  also.  Did 
he,  had  he  known  it  ?  Had  she  known  it  herself  until 
after?  Ah,  no.  She  must  be  honest  with  herself 
now,  and  if  she  had  not,  how  could  he  have  known? 
There  had  been  quarrels,  differences,  dissensions, 
petty  bickerings,  ill  tempers — her  fault,  her  fault. 
She  had  not  entered  into  his  work,  had  not  under- 
stood him,  had  not  sympathized  with  him  as  she 
might.  She  had  been  captious,  indifferent,  exacting. 
Had  she?  Had  he  been  first  in  her  thoughts  before 
all  the  rest?  He  was  so  tired,  not  himself,  and  she 
had  not  comprehended.  He  had  died  alone,  over 
his  book,  pen  in  hand,  like  the  knight  in  his  harness. 


84  The  Records 


What  had  he  said  last  to  her?  Or  she  to  him?  When 
had  she  kissed  him  last  in  life? 

He  had  worked  so  hard,  so  faithfully,  for  her  and 
her  children.  Had  she  worked  for  him?  Had  she 
kept  from  him  all  trouble,  all  annoyance,  that  she 
might  have  done?  Or  had  she  loaded  these  things 
upon  his  already  burdened  shoulders?  Had  she  been 
a  helpmate  to  him?  "  Wilt  thou  obey  him,  and 
serve  him,  love,  honor  and  keep  him?"  Service? 
Had  she  evidenced  aught  by  that  supreme  test? 
There  was  his  mother — there  were  so  many  things. 
They  crowded  swiftly  upon  her. 

Had  she  ever  known  him  before?  Ah,  now  she 
knew  him.  None  knew  him  as  she.  He  had  been 
so  kind  to  her,  so  gentle  with  her,  so  indulgent  to 
her.  How  had  she  repaid  him?  She  remembered 
again  so  many  things  he  had  said  and  done — things 
full  of  meaning  to  her  now,  different  meaning,  bet- 
ter meaning.  The  illumination  of  a  great  sorrow 
was  upon  her,  the  enlightment  of  a  great  loss  was 
poured  into  her  soul.  She  knew  him  at  last.  She 
saw  him  as  he  was.  She  loved  him  now  as  none 
other  could.  She  understood  him  as  never  before, 
and  it  was  too  late,  too  late!  Could  he  have  meant 
her  when  he  wrote  those  last  words?  Could  he  have 
fathomed  her  heart  in  spite  of  herself?  Or  was  there 
some  other  one?  Who  could  it  be? 

She  laid  the  book  down  on  the  desk,  where  his 
head  had  lain  when  he  died,  rested  her  head  on  her 
hands,  and  stared  at  it  in  a  cold  agony  of  jealous  inde- 
cision, as  one  fascinated.  Like  the  mother,  she  had 


"  To  Her  Who  Loved  Him  Best  of  All '!     85 

no  tears.     She  was  praying,  praying  in  vain  for  one 
word  of  assurance. 

In  the  privacy  of  her  chamber  sat  his  daughter. 
She  was  a  girl  of  eighteen,  with  all  the  undimmed 
enthusiasm  of  her  years.  She  had  been  proud  of 
her  father,  passionately  attached  to  him.  Fond  of 
her  mother,  yes,  but  the  two  stood  on  such  different 
planes  that  there  was  no  comparison.  She  took  the 
book  in  her  hand  and  bedewed  the  page  with  her 
tears — the  easy  tears  of  youth.  She  had  been  such  a 
comfort  to  him  in  many  ways,  he  had  said  sometimes. 
She  had  understood  him  less,  but  had  worshipped  him 
more.  Had  he  meant  her? 

There  was  a  childish  jealousy  in  the  query  in  her 
heart,  jealousy  of  her  mother,  of  her  grandmother, 
of  everybody.  What  was  the  test  he  himself  had 
lain  down?  The  highest  test  of  love,  service?  Had 
she  served  him?  Had  she  helped  him  as  she  might 
have  done?  Had  she  been  a  daughter  indeed?  Alas! 
there  arose  before  her  moments  of  folly,  of  petu- 
lance, of  scenes  that  had  tried  him  almost  beyond 
endurance.  If  she  only  had  not  done  it!  If  she 
only  had  always  been  what  he  fain  would  have  made 
her,  and  what  she  could  so  easily  have  been!  It  was 
not  she,  fond,  foolish  little  child.  Would  God  it 
might  have  been! 

Away  out  West  a  woman  who  had  lived  unmarried 
all  these  years  for  love  of  him  pressed  the  book  to 
her  heart,  which  cried  out,  in  jealous  pain  she  could 
not  stifle,  that  he  must  have  meant  her,  there  could 


86  The  Records 


be  no  other.  They  had  been  boy  and  girl  lovers  to- 
gether and  were  to  have  been  married.  She  was 
young  and  foolish ;  they  quarreled.  It  was  her  fault. 
He  went  away  and  married  some  one  else.  She  had 
never  seen  him  since  then,  and  she  had  repented 
only  once — that  was  all  her  life.  When  too  late  she 
discovered  that  she  had  loved  him  with  a  passion  like 
that  Francesca  bore  Paolo,  or  Petrarch  held  for 
Laura. 

And  he  had  loved  her.  If  things  had  been  differ- 
ent and  they  had  been  together,  how  her  love  would 
have  uplifted  him,  ennobled  him!  She  knew  that 
she  would  have  made  him  a  better  wife  than  any 
other;  that  she  would  have  understood  him,  sympa- 
thized with  him,  helped  him,  aided  him,  as  none  other 
could.  He  must  have  felt  it.  The  compulsion  of 
her  passion  must  have  been  upon  him.  He  must 
have  known  it.  Her  heart  must  have  spoken  to  him 
in  some  ethereal  hour.  Sometimes  the  dying  see 
visions.  Had  he  seen  her  at  last  and  believed?  And 
was  she  wrought  within  the  fabric  of  his  final  dream  \ 

Yet,  she,  too,  had  failed  him.  She  had  robbed  him 
of  the  treasure  of  her  affection.  When  she  might 
have  been  all  to  him  she  had  elected  to  be  nothing. 
Could  that  be  explained  or  brushed  aside?  Service? 
She  had  given  him  none  at  all.  She  had  loved  him 
as  none  other.  But  had  he  understood?  No,  the 
book  was  not  for  her;  she  could  not  claim  it  by  des- 
sert, however  much  her  desire.  He  would  never 
know  it.  He  could  never  understand.  Her  heart 
might  break  with  impotent  passion,  it  could  make  no 
difference  now. 


"  To  Her  Who  Loved  Him  Best  of  All  M    87 

Out  where  they  laid  him  on  the  slope  of  the  hill 
fronting  the  east,  a  woman  held  the  book  in  her  trem- 
bling hand,  and  looked  down  at  the  green  mound 
stretching  monotonously  from  her  feet.  There  were 
withered  flowers  upon  it,  blossoms  as  evanescent  as 
remembrance.  She  stood  there  unheeding  the  soft 
drip  of  the  rain  drenching  the  garments  enshrouding 
her  figure,  a  wretched,  unfortunate  woman,  fallen 
as  low  as  humanity  could  fall  and  yet  be  human. 

Late  one  night  years  ago  he  had  been  walking 
along  the  deserted  river  front  of  the  great  city  in 
search  of  local  color  for  one  of  his  novels,  and  he 
had  pulled  from  the  water  at  the  risk  of  his  life  this 
wretched  creature,  sick  with  the  hideous  horror  of 
her  situation,  and  striving  to  end  it  all  with  one 
plunge  into  the  icy  flood.  Nor  had  his  services 
ceased  there.  He  had  provided  for  her,  found  a  place 
of  rest  for  her,  helped  her,  in  his  strong  and  quiet 
way,  to  make  something  out  of  herself,  put  her  in  the 
way  of  becoming  a  good  woman  once  more. 

No  one  had  ever  spoken  to  her  as  he.  She  had 
never  met  one  like  him.  Her  heart  had  gone 
out  to  him.  She  had  loved  him  with  her 
whole  soul.  She  had  worshipped  the  ground  he 
had  walked  upon.  If  he  had  known  he  might  have 
meant  her.  If  he  had  looked  he  might  have  recog- 
nized her  devotion.  The  book  might  have  been  for 
her;  she  would  appropriate  it  to  herself  anyway; 
by  right  of  the  truth  it  was  hers  for  she  had  loved 
him  best  of  all. 

Yet  the  love  she  bore  him  had  not  served  to  save 


88  The  Records 


her.  The  last  state  of  the  woman  was  worse  than 
the  first.  She  loved  him,  yet  she  had  been  weak. 
She  had  tried — O  God  how  she  had  tried! — and  if 
she  had  failed  it  had  not  been  his  fault.  Had  he 
known  of  her  failure  it  would  have  grieved  him  to 
the  very  heart,  but  she  had  gone  away  and  left  no 
word. 

"  He  should  have  been  mine !  He  was  mine,  if 
love  gives  a  claim!"  she  cried,  stretching  out  her 
hands  to  the  cold,  gray  clouds  bending  low  above  her 
head.  "  If  I  could  have  been  his  it  might  have  been 
different.  He  did  not  know,  but  the  book  was  for 
me.  There  is  no  other  can  feel  as  I.  He  was  life 
to  me,  salvation  to  me!" 

Stop !  There  had  not  been  life  enough  in  her  love 
for  him  to  draw  her  away  from  the  body  of  death 
to  which  she  was  bound.  Her  love  had  not  been 
strong  enough  to  save  her  from  shame.  Whoever 
else  there  might  be,  whoever  else  might  claim  the 
words,  she  was  the  unworthiest  of  them  all.  The 
book  was  not  for  her.  She  hesitated  even  to  read  it, 
although  to  buy  it  had  taken  her  last  penny.  She 
knelt  down  on  the  wet  grass,  her  face  in  her  hands, 
but  could  form  no  petition.  She  could  not  even 
think  of  God,  for  she  thought  of  him. 

Yet  in  the  book,  all  unconsciously  it  may  be,  he 
had  solved  the  problem,  and  presently  one  woman  of 
the  five  read  and  understood,  a  peace  in  her  heart 
that  to  the  others  was  denied. 


"  He  was  mine,  if  love  gives 
a  claim!"  she  cried. — Page  I 


Fifth   Record 


THE    BABY'S   ADVENTURES   AND 
MINE 

I 

THE  FIRST  ADVENTURE* 

The  family  were  enjoying  an  attack  of  tonsillitis. 
I  think  there  were  one  hundred  and  fifty  cases  dis- 
tributed throughout  the  hotel  in  which  we  were 
spending  the  summer,  but  we  got  more  than  our 
share  of  the  disease,  for  the  baby's  mother,  his  two 
sisters,  his  big  brother,  and,  most  unfortunate  of  all, 
even  his  nurse,  had  it.  And  they  all  had  it  prac- 
tically at  the  same  time,  too. 

He  and  I  escaped;  but  I  had  him,  and  I  don't  know 
which  was  the  more  trying.  At  present  I  think  the 
baby  was — but  then,  I  have  never  had  the  tonsillitis. 
I  am  his  father.  I  didn't  have  a  happy  time  during 
that  epidemic,  for  so  many  people  were  ill  in  the  hotel 
at  the  same  time  that  there  was  no  way  of  getting  a 
trained  nurse  for  my  family,  and  I  had  to  attend  to 
them  and  the.  baby  also.  We  turned  our  apartments 
into  an  infirmary,  with  the  exception  of  one  room  in 
which  the  baby  had  to  stay.  He  wasn't  a  little  baby; 
in  fact,  he  was  two  and  a  half  years  old,  solid  and 

*  By  courtesy  of  "St.  Nicholas  Magazine." 


90  The  Records 


substantial  for  his  age,  and,  though  I  do  say  it  my- 
self, he  was  an  unusually  active  and  intelligent  child 
— how  active  I  never  quite  realized  before. 

However,  as  it  turned  out,  the  first  day  of  the 
tonsillitis  visitation  he  had  sprained  his  leg,  or  hurt  it 
in  some  way,  and  was  unable  to  walk.  He  had  to 
be  carried  everywhere.  In  passing,  for  a  month 
after  this,  whenever  he  got  lazy  and  wanted  to  be 
"  cawied,"  his  thoughts  would  recur  to  the  halcyon 
sprained-leg  days  when  I  was  his  porter,  and  the  leg 
would  suddenly  pain  him  again!  "Well,  at  the  time 
I  thought  this  enforced  "  immobility  "  was  a  terrible 
hardship — for  me — for  he  was  a  stout,  well-built, 
heavy  youngster,  and  it  was  quite  a  job  to  "  tote  " 
him  around  all  day  long  except  at  my  hourly  visits 
to  the  sick  members  of  the  household  for  the  pur- 
pose of  administering  nauseous  medicine;  but  it  had 
its  advantages,  as  I  afterwards  learned,  for  when  he 
was  put  down  anywhere  he  "  stayed  put."  He  was 
very  careful  of  that  game  leg  of  his;  consequently, 
I  was  entirely  safe  in  leaving  him.  The  next  day  it 
was  better  at  intervals — the  leg,  I  mean,  and  so  were 
the  other  patients — but  he  still  required  a  good  deal 
of  carrying;  and  as  he  gained  more  freedom  of  mo- 
tion, he  did  manage  to  get  into  some  mischief.  He 
was  not  up  to  his  capacity,  however.  The  third  day 
he  was  well.  The  tonsillitis  invalids  were  also  able 
to  take  their  own  medicine  without  my  help.  As  I 
had  been  kept  in  the  house  with  that  baby  for  two 
days,  I  thought  it  advisable  for  his  health  and  my 
own  comfort  to  get  outdoors. 


The  Baby's  Adventures  and  Mine     91 

The  hotel  fronted  on  a  beautiful  little  lake.  At 
the  foot  of  the  bluff  upon  which  it  stood  was  a  boat- 
house.  Like  all  Adirondack  boat-houses,  a  sloping 
platform  ran  from  the  boat-racks  into  and  under  the 
water.  You  put  your  boat  on  the  platform,  shove 
it  off  yourself,  and  spring  in  as  it  glides  away,  or 
you  get  in  first  and  someone  else  does  the  shoving 
for  you.  The  baby  wanted  to  go  fishing.  He 
wasn't  an  expert  angler,  never  having  caught  any- 
thing, although  he  fished  patiently  with  a  pin  hook 
and  twine  from  the  end  of  a  switch. 

His  leg  had  become  well  with  astonishing  sudden- 
ness, and  as  he  frisked  down  the  path,  clinging  to 
my  hand,  he  seemed  as  active  as  ever.  I  had  dressed 
him — painfully,  it  must  be  admitted,  being  unused 
to  a  task  of  that  kind — in  his  best  suit  of  clothes.  I 
put  on  this  suit  partly  because  it  happened  to  be 
the  first  one  in  the  bureau  drawer.  I  got  the  boat 
out  with  the  assistance  of  the  boatman,  and  was  pre- 
paring to  enter  it,  when  the  baby  dropped  a  ball  he 
was  carrying.  It  rolled  down  the  platform  and 
slipped  into  the  water.  He  darted  after  it.  Sqme- 
body  screamed  as  they  saw  him  plunge  forward.  I 
looked  up,  made  a  step  forward  and  clutched  him. 

You  can't  imagine  how  slippery  that  platform  was 
under  water.  I  never  dreamed  that  anything  made 
of  wood  could  be  so  sleek.  I  lifted  up  the  baby,  and 
made  a  frantic  effort  to  keep  my  balance.  In  vain! 
Out  went  my  feet,  and  down  we  both  went  sprawling. 
It  seemed  to  me  we  didn't  stop  until  we  had  shot 
twenty  feet  out  into  the  lake.  I  kept  tight  hold 


92  The  Records 


of  the  baby,  who  was  now  yelling  at  the  top  of  his 
voice.  He  kept  up  his  screaming  until  he  was  soused 
under.  Fortunately,  I  am  an  expert  swimmer,  and 
I  easily  lifted  him  out  of  the  water — at  least  his 
head — and  swam  around  to  the  landing-place  and 
scrambled  ashore. 

Then  he  began  roaring  again.  He  wasn't  the  only 
one  who  roared  either,  for  the  boat-house  was  filled 
with  people.  It  was  usually  empty  at  that  hour  of 
the  morning,  but  on  this  particular  day  it  seemed  to 
me  that  everybody  in  the  hotel  was  there.  As  we 
climbed  out  they  roared,  too — but  with  laughter. 
I  could  not  see  anything  funny  then.  I  shook  the 
baby,  I'll  admit,  but — merely  to  shake  the  water  out 
of  him,  or  off  of  him,  of  course. 

"  What  are  you  crying  about?"  I  asked  desper- 
ately. 

The  cause  of  his  weeping  is  clear  to  me  now,  but 
at  the  time  it  was  inexplicable. 

"What  do  you  want?"  I  continued  as  there  was 
no  abatement  of  his  cries. 

"  I  duss  want  to  be  excruged  for  f allin'  in  de 
water,"  he  sobbed  out  at  last. 

I  had  to  "  excruge  "  him  right  then  and  there  be- 
fore he  stopped  screaming.  Wet  and  bedraggled  we 
trailed  across  the  road  and  up  to  our  apartments. 
We  had  to  change  every  stitch  we  had  on.  Having 
recovered  from  this  impromptu  bath  we  started  out 
on  our  original  expedition,  our  first  failure  only  mak- 
ing the  baby  more  determined. 

This    time    we    entered    the    boat    without    any 


The  Baby's  Adventures  and  Mine     93 

mishap,  I  rowed  out  into  the  lake,  and  the 
youngster  cast  his  line  and  began.  I  had  a 
book,  the  day  was  pleasant,  and  I  sat  reading, 
glancing  at  him  occasionally  to  see  that  he  didn't  get 
into  mischief.  He  was  quite  content  to  fish  there 
for  hours  without  any  result.  He  had  the  true  spirit 
of  Izaak  Walton  in  him,  I  think,  and  when  he  was 
fishing  was  the  only  time  in  his  life  that  he  remained 
still  and  kept  quiet,  so  I  encouraged  the  pastime. 
The  boat  drifted  slowly  along,  the  absorbed  angler 
watching  his  hook.  Suddenly  I  heard  an  excited 
scream  from  the  stern-sheets.  The  small  boy  had 
risen  and  was  dancpg  frantically  up  and  down  on 
the  seat,  holding  his  fishing-pole  with  both  hands, 
yelling,  "  I  dot  a  fis'!  I  dot  a  fis'!" 

It  was  somewhat  of  a  problem  whether  he  had 
"  dot  a  fis'  "  or  the  "  fis'  "  had  "  dot  "  him;  but  be- 
fore I  could  take  in  the  fact  that  the  line  was  taut 
as  a  wire  and  the  young  angler  was  holding  on  des- 
perately, he  pitched  wildly  overboard.  I  made  a 
hasty  movement  to  save  him  and,  by  ill-luck,  over- 
turned the  cranky  boat.  I  caught  him  by  the  leg 
just  as  he  went  down  again,  fearing  lest  the  fish, 
which  seemed  as  strong  as  a  whale,  might  tow  him 
across  the  lake. 

As  I  said  before,  I  was  a  good  swimmer,  even  with 
my  clothes  on.  This  was  a  second  time  that  day  I 
had  a  chance  to  display  my  prowess  in  the  water. 
The  baby  didn't  cry  this  time.  The  true  spirit  of 
the  sportsman  was  in  him.  He  just  shut  his  little 
teeth  and  hung  on  to  that  rod  with  two  chubby  little 


94  The  Records 


fists.  I  swam  to  the  boat,  tossed  him  upon  the  bot- 
tom of  it,  and  then  started  to  push  the  boat  to  the 
shore.  The  baby  never  let  go  of  his  prize,  but  kept 
on  exclaiming:  "  I  dot  a  fis'!" 

Meanwhile  some  one  from  the  shore  rowed  out  and 
towed  us  in.  We  furnished  a  good  deal  of  amuse- 
ment for  the  hotel  that  day.  People  apparently  ex- 
pected something  to  happen  to  us,  for  a  larger  crowd 
than  before  was  at  the  boat-house  as  we  landed.  My 
thoughts  were  too  deep  for  utterance,  and  all  the 
baby  did  was  to  hold  up  his  pole  proudly  and  draw 
attention  to  the  fish  dangling  from  the  end  of  it. 
That  fish  was  about  three  inches  long. 

"I  taught  him;  I  taught  dat  fis'!"  he  said  to  the 
assemblage,  his  voice  shrill  with  excitement.  "  I 
duss  hooked  him,  an'  I  didn't  let  go,  and  my  papa 
holded  me  up." 

It  was  an  effective  speech,  if  I  may  judge  by  the 
results.  I  have  thought  since  that  he  would  make 
a  capital  comedian,  if  the  chief  function  of  a  come- 
dian is  to  make  people  laugh. 

Well,  we  made  another  trip  to  our  apartments  and 
changed  our  clothes  a  second  time.  It  was  Monday, 
and  two  weeks'  laundry  had  just  gone.  Our  stock 
of  clothes  therefore,  was  running  rather  low.  I 
think  my  son  seemed  to  have  the  faculty  of  getting 
more  rumpled  and  mussed  when  I  had  him  in  charge 
than  he  ordinarily  did  when  accompanied  by  his 
nurse.  We  got  our  dinner,  and  proceeded  to  go 
forth  in  search  of  more  amusement. 

This  time  we  walked.     I  had  had  enough  of  the 


The  Baby's  Adventures  and  Mine     95 

water,  for  that  day  at  least;  so  we  strolled  around 
the  foot  of  the  lake,  toward  the  bowling  alley  which 
was  on  the  other  side.  I  had  an  engagement  with 
one  of  the  guests  for  a  bowling  match  that  afternoon. 
The  baby  enjoyed  going  there.  He  had  the  free 
range  of  the  place,  so  long  as  he  kept  off  the  alleys, 
and  he  usually  had  great  fun  playing  with  the  little 
balls. 

The  only  people  bowling  that  afternoon  were  the 
man  and  myself.  The  other  alleys  were  free.  The 
baby  played  in  these  empty  alleys,  rolling  the  little 
balls  around,  and  almost  every  time  he  rolled  a  ball 
'he  slipped  and  fell  on  the  polished  floor.  So  long, 
however,  as  he  did  not  fall  heavily  enough  to  hurt 
himself  we  paid  no  especial  attention  to  him,  but 
kept  on  with  our  game.  Consequently  we  didn't 
notice  his  absence  until  we  heard  a  fearful  howl  from 
the  adjoining  room. 

We  dashed  into  the  room,  which  was  used  as  a 
locker  room,  beyond  which  lay  the  shower  baths. 
He  was  in  the  middle  of  the  big  square  shower — 
one  of  those  things  with  many  pipes  which  throw  the 
water  at  you  from  all  directions.  It  was  so  arranged 
that  one  swing  of  a  lever  opened  every  one  of  them. 
He  had  wandered  in  there  and  had  pulled  the  lever. 
They  were  all  going  hard.  That  infant  was  seated 
on  the  floor  in  the  middle  of  the  shower,  the  water 
streaming  iipon  him  in  every  possible  direction.  It 
was  lucky  none  of  it  was  hot  water  it  being  summer. 

He  may  have  been  weeping, — of  course  we  could 
not  tell  the  water  from  tears  under  the  circumstances, 


96  The  Records 


— but  his  lung  power  had  not  been  diminished  by  his 
exploits  of  the  day,  and  he  was  screaming  lustily  for 
help. 

Really  it  was  an  extraordinarily  funny  sight,  and 
I  am  ashamed  to  say  my  friend  and  I  laughed.  As 
soon  as  we  could  recover  ourselves  a  little,  I  directed 
that  baby  to  come  out.  He  was  usually  an  obedient 
child,  but  either  he  didn't  hear  me  or  he  was  too 
scared  to  come  forth;  certainly  he  didn't  heed  my 
commands. 

He  sat  there  as  solid  as  a  pyramid,  the  water 
streaming  down  upon  him.  Threats,  commands,  ap- 
peals were  alike  useless.  There  was  no  help  for  it: 
I  myself  had  to  turn  that  water  off  and  get  him.  The 
controlling  lever  was  behind  him.  It  was  too  far  for 
me  to  reach  in  and  turn  it  off;  I  had  to  go  in.  My 
laughter  ceased  rather  suddenly,  but  my  incon- 
siderate friend  continued  to  see  the  humor  of  the 
situation  with  even  more  force  than  before.  The 
way  he  laughed  was  exasperating! 

Well,  there  was  no  use  waiting  any  longer.  In 
I  plunged  boldly,  found  the  lever,  turned  off  the 
water,  took  that  infant,  and  started  home.  It  was 
a  triumphal  march  we  made  through  the  village, 
around  the  end  of  the  lake,  back  to  the  hotel.  I 
never  knew  until  that  day  how  many  of  the  guests 
were  accustomed  to  take  walks  through  that  wood- 
land path.  And  they  were  so  interested  in  us,  too. 

"  What,  again?" 

"  How  many  times  does  this  make?  " 

"  Well,  you  are  certainly  fond  of  the  water!  " 


The  Baby's  Adventures  and  Mine     97 

"  Why  don't  you  get  a  bathing-suit? " 

"Or  a  rubber  coat?" 

"  I  declare  "  (this  from  some  motherly  old  ladies), 
"  it's  a  shame  to  treat  a  baby  so !  " 

"  He  isn't  fit  to  be  trusted  with  a  child,  anyway." 

"  Where's  the  poor  thing's  mother?  " 

Such  were  some  of  the  comments  of  those  unfeel- 
ing people. 

I  took  that  young  man  up  to  our  apartments  for 
the  third  time  that  day,  and  this  time  put  him  to 
bed.  He  hadn't  said  a  word  to  me  during  our  in- 
teresting walk  home,  and  he  did  not  until  I  was  tuck- 
ing him  under  the  sheets,  there  to  remain  while  some 
of  his  wardrobe  was  drying.  Then,  as  I  bent  over 
him,  looking  as  stern  and  inexorable  and  disgusted 
as  a  man  could  well  look  who  had  undergone  such 
mishaps,  he  reached  up  his  little  arms,  drew  my  head 
toward  him,  and  whispered: 

"  Are  you  mad,  papa  ?  'Cause  if  you're  mad,  I 
duss  want  to  be  excruged: 

After  that  I  had  to  "  excruge  "  him  again.  My ! 
but  I  was  glad  when  night  came. 

The  next  day  the  nurse  was  able  to  assume  her 
responsibilities  once  more,  and  I  cheerfully  relin- 
quished that  delectable  infant  into  her  keeping.  I 
have  a  great  respect  for  that  nurse,  she  managed 
him  so  easily — a  most  remarkable  young  woman, 
indeed!  I  never  appreciated  what  a  necessary  ad- 
junct to  the  family  happiness  and  safety  she  was. 
And  I  earnestly  trust  that  if  the  family  is  again  laid 
low  by  tonsillitis,  its  attacks  will  come  "  piecemeal " 


98  The  Records 


and  always  leave  free  at  least  one  member  more 
skilled  than  I  to  undertake  the  care  of  this  very  dear 
but  very  strenuous  youngster. 


II 

THE   SECOND   ADVENTURE* 

The  baby  did  not  go  alone,  of  course.  No!  He 
was  too  young  to  do  that,  being  only  three  and  a  half 
years  old  at  this  time.  Jim  and  I  went  with  him. 
He  took  us,  or  we  took  him,  I  don't  know  which 
exactly,  neither  does  Jim;  anyway,  it  does  not  matter 
very  much — we  all  three  went  together,  and  in  spite 
of  the  baby's  mother!  I  think  the  mother  wanted 
very  much  to  go  along,  so  did  Mrs.  Jim,  and  the  little 
girl,  and  the  maids,  but  we  really  could  not  take 
everybody,  you  see;  we  had  to  draw  the  line  some- 
where, so  we  drew  it  at  the  ladies.  "  I  dest  want  to 
do  wif  de  men,"  said  the  baby  proudly,  and  as  it  was 
preeminently  his  own  particular  fishing  excursion, 
we  had  to  humor  him,  of  course. 

Jim — he  is  forty-seven  years  old,  if  he  is  a  day! — 
was  very  fond  of  the  baby,  and  it  was  not  his  baby 
either,  it  was  mine.  I  don't  usually  call  the  baby 
"  it,"  seeing  that  he  is  a  little  boy,  but  that  time  it 
seemed  more  grammatical  to  do  so. 

But  where  was  I?  Oh,  yes,  talking  about  Jim! 
Jim — he  had  other  names  than  that,  of  course,  big, 
handsome,  grown-up  names  like  you  see  in  story- 

*  By  courtesy  of  "  Lippincott's  Magazine." 


The  Baby's  Adventures  and  Mine     99 

books — had  a  fishing  and  hunting  lodge  in  the  moun- 
tains of  Minnesota,  not  far  from  the  Mississippi 
River.  We  all  sailed  down  the  river  with  the  baby 
in  a  little  stern-wheeled  steamboat  called  the  Cy- 
clone !  And  it  was  the  tamest,  quietest  cyclone  I  was 
ever  caught  in  out  West.  It  was  very  pleasant  up  in 
the  pilot-house,  and  being  and  old  sailor  myself,  the 
captain  let  me  steer  the  boat  while  the  baby  and  Jim 
and  Mrs.  Jim  and  Jim's  little  girl  and  the  baby's 
mother  and  the  maids  all  ate  peanuts !  They  ate  five 
large  bags  too.  The  baby  wanted  to  steer  the  boat 
himself,  but  we  persuaded  him  to  accept  peanuts 
instead. 

The  lodge — they  called  it  Brook  Lodge — was  a 
most  delightful  place.  There  was  a  log  house  for 
the  grown-ups,  with  a  men's  side  and  a  woman's 
side,  separated  by  a  curtain  which  was  tucked  up 
during  the  day.  It — the  cabin,  that  is — had  eight 
sleeping-berths  in  it,  two  in  each  corner,  one  above 
the  other,  like  a  Pullman  car,  and  in  the  end  of  it 
was  a  huge  rock  fireplace.  There  was  another  log 
cabin  for  the  children  and  the  maids, — the  baby  slept 
there, — and  still  another  house  for  a  kitchen,  named 
the  Waldorf-Astoria.  The  dining-room  was  made 
out  of  wire  screens  bolted  together,  with  a  canvas 
roof  over  it;  there  was  an  ice-house,  a  stable,  and  so 
on;  and  the  bath-room  was  a  tent  with  a  real  tin  tub 
in  it  on  a  board  floor. 

It  was  quite  dark  when  we  drove  up  to  the  place, 
and  we  all  had  to  work  very  hard  for  awhile  opening 
the  cabins,  preparing  supper,  building  fires,  carrying 


100  The  Records 


water,  and  getting  ready  for  the  night.  Jim  believed 
in  everybody  working.  Even  the  baby  worked;  he 
ran  around  everywhere  and  bossed  the  job — he  and 
Jim.  As  for  me,  I  brought  in  seventeen  large  logs 
for  the  fire ! — a  thing  I  had  not  attempted  since  I  was 
a  boy  and  had  to  do  chores  at  home. 

The  lodge  stood  on  the  top  of  a  high  hill  covered 
with  trees,  which  happened  to  be  situated  just  where 
three  valleys  met;  through  each  of  them  ran  a  little 
brook  filled  with  fish.  The  whole  place  was  surrounded 
with  mountains,  and  out  there  they  had  farms  on  the 
mountain  tops!  We  could  see  the  brown  wheat- 
fields  on  the  crests.  The  baby  had  caught  just  one 
solitary  fish  in  all  his  life.  That  was  in  the  Adiron- 
dacks  the  year  before.  He  capsized  the  boat  with  me 
in  it  when  he  caught  it,  and  he  remembered  about  it 
and  wanted  to  do  it  again — catch  fish,  I  mean,  not 
capsize  a  boat,  of  course ;  that  part  he  did  not  like  at 
all,  neither  did  I !  So  Jim,  who  was  the  nicest  fellow 
in  the  world  and  great  chums  with  the  baby,  planned 
to  take  him  fishing  in  the  morning. 

That  morning  it  rained.  I  never  saw  it  rain  cats- 
and-dogs,  but  if  it  ever  did  or  could  rain  cats-and- 
dogs,  I  am  sure  it  would  have  done  it  then.  The 
baby  was  miserable ;  so  were  we.  It  looked  as  though 
it  would  rain  forever.  We  wanted  to  take  him  any- 
way, rain  or  no  rain,  but  the  baby's  mother  said  no. 
She  put  her  foot  down  too  when  she  said  it.  The 
baby's  mother's  foot  is  small,  but  the  baby  and  I 
have  learned  that  when  it  comes  down  it  covers  all 
the  necessary  territory.  So  we  had  to  amuse  our- 


The  Baby's  Adventures  and  Mine    101 

selves  the  best  way  we  could  before  the  log  fires  in 
the  cabins,  praying  and  hoping  the  rain  would  cease. 
Meanwhile  we  busied  ourselves  by  getting  everything 
ready  in  case  it  ever  did  clear. 

Sure  enough,  at  about  three  o'clock  the  rain  at  last 
stopped.  It  was  cold  and  damp;  the  sky  remained 
overcast  and  threatening;  the  woods,  the  fields,  and 
especially  the  weeds  and  grass  bordering  the  brooks, 
were  soaking  wet;  and  the  brooks  themselves  were 
full  to  overflowing  with  dark,  muddy  water.  The 
prospects  for  good  fishing,  therefore,  were  not  bril- 
liant. Unfortunately,  we  could  only  spend  one  day 
at  the  lodge,  so  we  had  to  go  fishing  then  or  not  at 
all.  Besides,  we  really  wanted  to  go — to  take  him, 
that  is.  So  we  begged  the  baby's  mother, — at  least 
we  got  Mrs.  Jim  to  do  it  for  us, — and  at  last  she 
said  we  might  take  him,  although  she  knew  it  would 
be  the  death  of  him. 

We  fixed  him  up  for  the  occasion  with  great  care. 
We  did  not  wish  to  kill  the  baby  because  we — he,  I 
mean — wanted  to  go  fishing.  A  pair  of  rubber  boots 
belonging  to  Jim's  little  girl  were  brought  out.  The 
baby  eyed  them  dubiously  while  the  rest  of  us  smiled. 
"  You  won't  laugh  at  me,  mamma,"  he  said  ner- 
vously, "  w'en  I  det  'em  on  me,  will  you? "  The 
baby,  like  most  persons, — male  persons,  that  is, — 
objected  to  being  laughed  at.  The  boots  came  up  to 
his  middle  nearly.  We  covered  his  overcoat  with  an 
old  blue  sweater,  too  large  for  him,  which  came  down 
to  his  boots,  and  then  we  put  one  of  Jim's  old  caps 
on  his  head.  He  looked  so  funny  when  he  was 


102  The  Kecvrds 


dressed  finally  that  his  mother  and  Mrs.  Jim  and 
the  others  had  to  go  out  behind  the  cabin  and  laugh 
into  the  rain-barrels  for  fear  he  would  hear  them  and 
have  his  feelings  hurt.  Babies  have  feeling,  you 
know,  just  like  boys  and  girls  and  grown-ups.  Jim 
and  I  did  not  laugh.  We  were  proud  of  our  handi- 
work. So  was  the  baby.  You  should  have  seen  him. 

During  the  day  we  had  given  much  thought  to  the 
question  of  transportation.  The  baby  could  not  walk 
in  those  boots,  or  through  the  wet  weeds  either.  We 
had  to  carry  him,  that  was  certain.  Jim  suggested 
that  we  take  him  in  a  barrel.  Mrs.  Jim  and  the 
baby's  mother  said  that  was  absurd,  but  we  thought 
not.  So  Jim  hunted  up  a  cement-barrel,  and  I,  being 
an  old  sailor,  made  a  rope  sling  with  two  handles  to  it 
to  carry  the  barrel. 

Well,  we  had  it  ready  at  last,  and  into  it  we  loaded 
the  baby  with  the  bait  and  some  other  things,  and 
each  seizing  a  handle  we  started  off  down  the  hill,  the 
whole  family  looking  gleefully  on.  The  baby  was 
very  doubtful  about  the  barrel.  It  was  too  short,  we 
soon  found,  and  as  the  baby's  weightiest  part  is  his 
head — he  is  a  very  large-headed,  brainy  infant — the 
whole  contrivance  with  him  in  it  was  decidedly  top- 
heavy,  and  lurched  to  and  fro  frightfully  as  we 
slipped  and  stumbled  down  the  steep,  wet  hill.  It  is  a 
wonder  he  was  not  pitched  out.  The  baby  was 
plucky,  however,  and  he  held  to  the  barrel  tightly, 
but  when  we  reached  the  bottom  he  ejaculated  quite 
brokenly  between  swings, 

"  Dis  barrel  makes  me  awshul  sick!  " 


He  got  a  fierce  bite. — Page  103 


The  Baby's  Adventures  and  Mine    103 

It  was  enough  to  make  an  old  sailor  like  myself 
seasick,  I  guess.  So  we  took  him  out.  Away  up  at 
the  top  of  the  hill  the  ladies,  who  could  see  us  quite 
plainly,  were  yelling: 

"We  told  you  so!" 

But  we  did  not  pay  any  attention  to  them  then,  as 
you  may  imagine. 

After  that  one  of  us  carried  the  baby  pickaback, 
while  the  other  one  carried  the  barrel,  the  rod,  the 
bait,  and  the  other  things.  We  took  turns  carrying 
the  baby;  he  was  the  heaviest,  although  the  barrel 
and  the  other  things  were  most  awkward  to  handle. 
Jim  carried  the  baby  most  of  the  time.  He  hasn't 
had  so  many  babies  to  carry  as  I  have  and  it  was  more 
of  a  novelty  to  him  than  to  me,  so  I  let  him  gladly. 
You  have  no  idea  how  heavy  that  baby  got  before  we 
reached  the  creek.  I  never  knew  before  that  a  child's 
weight  could  increase  so  greatly  in  so  short  a  time.  It 
seemed  a  long  time  too. 

Well,  we  reached  what  looked  like  a  good  place 
for  fishing  at  last.  We  stood  the  baby  down  in  the 
grass  temporarily,  and  while  Jim  baited  the  hook 
I  fixed  our  famous  fishing-barrel  as  close  to  the 
water's  edge  as  possible,  so  as  to  make  a  nice,  dry, 
convenient  place  for  the  baby  to  fish  from.  Then 
I  sat  down  in  the  wet  grass  and  held  the  barrel  by  the 
rope  handle  to  keep  it  from  sliding  into  the  creek. 
Then  Jim  put  the  baby  in  the  barrel,  handed  him  the 
small  rod,  and  proceeded  to  give  him  his  first  lesson. 

The  baby  was  an  apt  pupil.  In  about  ten  seconds 
he  got  a  fierce  bite.  He  pulled  frantically,  and  out 


104  The  Records 


of  the  water  came  a  big  sucker  about  a  foot  long! 
I  don't  know  which  was  the  more  surprised,  the 
sucker  or  the  baby.  The  infant  yelled  like  mad  and 
dropped  the  rod.  We  did  not  know  just  why  he 
yelled — fear  or  excitement,  perhaps  both.  Anyway, 
Jim  grabbed  the  pole  and  I  grabbed  him  with  one 
hand,  so  we  did  not  all  slide  into  the  brook  then. 
We  gave  the  baby  the  pole  again  and  he  finally 
landed  the  fish  high  and  dry  on  the  bank.  As  it  lay 
flapping  and  wriggling  in  the  grass  he  eyed  it  glee- 
fully and  shouted  and  screamed  and  clapped  his 
hands  with  triumphant  joy.  We  did  too.  It  was  as 
much  fun  as  going-to-the-circus-with-the-children 
used  to  be. 

We  all  made  so  much  noise  over  this  first  capture 
at  that  place  that  there  was  no  use  in  trying  it  there 
any  longer,  so  we  unhooked  the  fish,  put  it  in  the 
fishing  bag  slung  over  the  baby's  shoulder,  and 
started  off  again. 

This  time  we  found  a  likely  trout-hole.  We  were 
most  anxious  to  have  the  baby  catch  a  trout,  if  pos- 
sible. So  we  fixed  things  as  before  and  cautioned 
him  to  be  very  quiet,  as  trout  do  not  like  noise.  He 
was  as  still  as  a  mouse  after  we  got  him  planted  in 
his  barrel  again,  rod  in  hand.  It  was  a  bad  day  for 
trout,  but  we  almost  had  one,  at  least  we  thought  so, 
when  the  baby  suddenly  broke  the  exciting  silence 
by  a  fearsome  howl! 

"  Sh-sh-sh !  "  I  said,  but  the  howling  only  increased 
in  volume. 

"  What's  the  matter?  "  asked  Jim. 


The  Baby's  Adventures  and  Mine    105 

"  Dis  fish  is  bitin'  me  in  de  stummick!  "  wailed  the 
baby,  pointing  to  the  bag,  which  had  slipped  around 
so  that  it  hung  before  his  waist-band.  The  fish  he 
had  caught  and  placed  in  the  bag  had  suddenly  com- 
menced wriggling,  which  had  scared  the  young  angler 
out  of  his  wits.  Of  course,  we  lost  that  trout. 

"We  explained  matters  and  quieted  him  down.  In 
the  middle  of  it  all  he  got  another  bite,  dropped  the 
rod,  and  away  it  went.  Jim  got  it,  he  also  got  very 
wet,  but  when  the  baby  pulled  out  his  second  fish, 
another  sucker,  he  said  he  did  not  mind  it — getting 
wet,  I  mean. 

"Well,  we  fished  the  brook  for  about  five  miles, 
more  or  less,  and  the  baby  caught  one  sucker  per 
mile.  The  last  effort  was  attended  by  several  cir- 
cumstances of  an  unusual  and  dramatic  nature. 

The  bank  of  the  creek  was  everywhere  very  slip- 
pery and  the  standing-ground  very  narrow.  I  planted 
my  heels  in  the  ooze  and  sat  down  with  my  back 
against  the  bank,  holding  the  barrel  between  my 
knees,  on  one  of  which  Jim  calmly  and  recklessly  sat 
down.  They  were  all  depending  upon  me,  you  see. 
In  the  excitement  of  catching  the  last  fish  something 
gave  way,  my  feet  slipped;  how  it  ever  happened  I 
cannot  explain — of  course  it  was  the  baby's  fault, 
since  he  brought  us  fishing.  Anyway,  we  all  fell  in. 
That  is,  Jim  and  I  did.  As  we  slipped  we  both 
desperately  caught  at  the  barrel  and  lifted  it  clear 
of  the  water.  The  baby  gallantly  hung  on  to  the 
edge  with  one  hand  and  with  the  other  clutched 
desperately  the  rod.  When  matters  quieted  down 


106  The  Records 


again  he  calmly  remarked  to  his  two  faithful  servi- 
tors— Jim  and  I,  you  know — standing  breast  high 
in  the  ice-cold  water  above  our  waists. 

"Idotanudderfish!" 

Inasmuch  as  the  fish  had  been  flapping  in  our  faces 
for  the  last  half  minute,  we  were  quite  aware  of  the 
fact. 

We  put  the  baby,  still  in  his  barrel,  back  on  the 
bank  again,  clambered  out  of  the  brook  slowly,  sadly 
sat  down  by  the  barrel  and  emptied  the  water  out  of 
our  long  wading-boots  and  looked  plaintively  at  the 
young  fisherman.  He  was  a  wise  baby  indeed.  I 
said  before  that  he  was  large-headed  and  brainy.  He 
returned  our  mournful  and  beseeching  gaze  with 
interest  and  at  last  remarked  gravely: 

"  I  dess  I'll  do  home  now.    I  had  anush." 

We  too  had  "  anush."  So  we  carried  him  back 
over  the  hills  and  through  the  fields  and  far  away — 
awfully  "  far  away,"  by  the  way — till  we  reached  the 
lodge  again.  There  he  was  received,  with  his  six 
suckers  and  his  two  servitors,  with  open  arms  by  his 
mother  and  by  Mrs.  Jim,  and  by  the  little  girl  and  all 
the  rest.  I  guess  they  were  glad  they  had  not  gone 
along  when  they  saw  us. 

The  next  morning  was  bright  and  sunny.  We  had 
an  hour  or  two  at  our  disposal  before  the  time  for 
leaving  came.  We  dressed  him  up  as  before  and 
"  kodaked  "  him.  That  baby  wanted  to  go  fishing 
again,  but  this  time  we  demurred.  As  I  said  before, 
we  had  had  "  anush  "  to  last  us  for  some  time — and  it 
was  Sunday,  anyway. 


Sixth   Record 


DIVIDED 

A  KOMANCE   OF  THE  MOUNTAINS* 


He  was  an  artist;  she  was  a  dreamer;  both  were 
poets.  They  were  alone  together  on  the  roof  of  the 
world,  above  them  nothing  but  heaven,  beneath  them 
all  of  the  earth. 

"  There,"  the  guide  had  said,  "  you  c'n  see  f ei» 
yourself.  That's  the  summit.  It's  the  highest  p'int 
in  the  range." 

"  We  would  rather  go  forward  alone;  I  know  the 
place,"  said  the  man,  as  the  mountaineer  made  as 
if  to  show  them  the  way. 

"  Jest  as  you  like,"  returned  the  other.  "  Be 
careful  of  the  cliff  on  the  far  side.  I'll  go  down  to 
the  camp,  an'  me  an'  my  wife'll  git  the  things  ready 
fer  the  night." 

There  was  a  great  contrast  between  the  two  left 
on  the  crest.  Not  in  height,  for  he  was  but  slightly 
above  the  middle  size,  and  she  but  slightly  beneath 
him  as  they  stood  side  by  side.  But  he  was  all 
strength  and  vigor,  like  the  splendid  canvases  he 
painted,  while  she  was  all  delicacy  and  grace,  like 
the  visions  she  saw,  the  dreams  she  dreamed. 

*By  courtesy  of  "  The  Twentieth  Century  Home." 


108  The  Kecords 


Without  his  aid,  she  would  never  have  mastered 
the  almost  insurmountable  difficulties  of  the  lonely 
mountain.  It  was  the  guide's  part,  as  a  rule,  to 
help  the  woman,  but  he-  had  jealously  reserved  that 
privilege  for  himself.  His  hand  had.  led  her  upward. 
She  dreamed  and  prayed,  he  hoped  and  determined, 
that  so  it  should  be  for  life. 

The  way  was  easy  now,  but  the  habit  of  the  morn- 
ing nestled  her  hand  in  'his  as  they  stepped  over 
the  broken  rock  toward  the  pinnacle  on  the  summit. 
The  mountain,  precipitous  on  all  sides,  rose  to  a  point 
where  it  fronted  the  west,  like  the  great  bow  of  a 
mighty  ship  cleaving  an  ocean  of  air.  Thence  it  fell 
away  in  a  sheer  sweep  of  cleft  rock,  until  the  preci- 
pice was  lost  in  the  pine  trees  a  thousand  feet  below. 

He  had  been  there  often  before  and  was  familiar 
with  the  scene.  It  was  at  his  insistence  that  she  had 
essayed  the  difficult  and  dangerous  task.  He  had 
brought  her  there  with  deep  and  serious  purpose. 
There  was  one  spot  which  lacked  but  her  presence  to 
be  to  him  the  vertex  of  the  world — the  universe, 
even;  and  thither,  with  steps  of  increasing  slowness, 
and  with  a  deepening  gravity  of  port  and  mien,  as 
one  approaches  with  bated  breath  the  realization  of  a 
cherished  hope,  grasps  at  the  embodiment  of  a  pre- 
cious dream,  he  led  'her.  Hand  in  hand  they  stepped 
unto  it,  and  "  God  He  knoweth  how  blythe  they 
were." 

At  the  very  apex  of  the  point,  wind  or  weather, 
rain  or  sun,  heat  or  cold,  or  mayhap  the  hand  of  God, 
had  scooped  out  a  little  hollow  in  the  old  Laurentian 


Divided  109 

rock — first  of  all  the  earth's  surface  to  lift  its  head 
above  the  vasty  deep  in  the  world's  morning.  It  was 
the  oldest  and  greatest  of  all  earthly  thrones.  The 
rock  descended  in  a  few  natural  steps,  and  then 
spread  out  flatly  in  front  of  the  pinnacle  for  a  few 
feet,  before  it  fell  sheer  away  in  the  swimming 
abysm,  with  plunge  and  depth  appalling  to  the  stout- 
est heart. 

Tenderly,  daintily,  with  courtesy,  with  reverence 
and  worship — for  he  loved  her — he  led  her  there. 
He  enthroned  her  in  that  regal  chair  of  the  ages, 
then  stepped  back  upon  the  dizzy  verge  and  turned 
and  looked  at  her.  From  one  of  his  temperament 
the  action  was  in  itself  a  compliment,  the  force  of 
which  could  not  be  misunderstood. 

Before  her  lay  unrolled  such  a  panorama  as  does 
not  often  delight  human  vision.  The  mountain  was 
in  the  center  of  a  vast  crescent  of  mighty  peaks  only 
less  exalted  than  itself.  Broken  ranges  of  slightly 
lees  altitude  sprang  irregularly  from  the  great  semi- 
circle, diminishing  miles  away  in  softly  rounded  hills, 
that  lost  themselves  in  level  vistas  of  distant  plains. 
Valleys  inaccessible,  unseen,  their  very  existence  not 
dreamed  of  except  by  those  who  overlooked  them 
from  above,  lay  at  her  feet. 

The  sunlight  of  the  west  in  splendor,  though  fad- 
ing in  the  sky,  flashed  through  the  rifts  in  the  foot- 
hills and  fell  upon  tiny  lakelets  in  borders  of  emerald 
that  dotted  the  prospect,  mellowing  the  sublime  into 
the  tender  and  the  beautiful.  It  was  a  scene  to  fill 
a  painter's  eye  and  a  poet's  mind.  Again  and  again 


110  The  Records 


he  had  essayed  to  paint  it,  only  to  throw  aside  his 
brush  in  despair.  Again  and  again  he  had  returned 
to  it,  only  to  be  filled  anew  with  a  sense  of  its  splen- 
dor, its  beauty,  and  his  own  impotence. 

At  that  hour  it  was  nothing  to  him.  In  the  face 
of  the  world  with  all  its  appeal,  he  was  looking  at 
the  woman. 

The  sight  was  novel  to  her.  He  had  told  her  little 
about  it.  She  was  quite  unprepared  for  it.  It  ap- 
pealed to  her  as  profoundly  as  it  did  to  him.  While 
he  placed  her  on  that  throne  he  kept  himself  between 
her  and  the  prospect,  and  it  was  not  until  he  had 
stepped  aside  that  the  magnificence  of  it  burst  upon 
her.  He  could  see  the  look  of  sudden  surprise  leap 
into  her  eyes;  he  could  mark  the  quick  intake  of  the 
breath,  the  pause  in  her  bosom's  fall,  as  if  her  heart 
had  hesitated  in  its  beating  for  a  moment. 

Then  she  looked  at  him.  In  the  face  of  the  world, 
the  woman  returned  the  look  of  the  man. 

Something  leaped  within  their  hearts  that  tran- 
scended nature,  that  was  greater  than  all  that  was 
material  beneath  them,  even  though  fashioned  by  the 
hand  of  God.  He  and  she  on  the  mountain  top — love, 
the  world  forgetting,  by  the  world  forgot.  That  one 
look  repaid  him.  He  stepped  closer  to  her,  sank 
down  at  her  feet  on  the  spur  of  the  rock,  a  step  of 
the  throne,  and  she  leaned  forward  a  little,  resting 
her  hand  upon  his  shoulder.  They  were  silent  while 
they  gazed. 

"  After  you,"  said  the  man  at  last,  "  I  love  this." 


Divided  111 

He  threw  his  head  back  and  the  woman  smiled 
down  upon  him. 

"  After  you,"  she  said,  softly,  triumph  mingling 
with  passion,  "  I  love — nothing." 

In  a  woman's  heart  there  are  depths  which  a  man 
may  not  sound;  there  is  more  of  God's  image  in  one 
woman's  soul  than  in  the  souls  of  many  men.  Upon 
them  is  the  touch  divine  that  has  made  them 
women  and  beloved.  In  that  hour  the  man  knew 
this. 

"  Yours  is  best,"  he  said,  humbly.  "  I  am  at  your 
feet,  happy  to  be  there  to  learn  from  you  light 
and  truth,  and  what  sums  them  all  up — love." 

His  strong  face  softened;  the  firm,  set  lines  re- 
laxed a  little.  He  bowed  over  her  slender  hand; 
the  other  she  laid  upon  his  head. 

"  You  are  here,"  he  said,  at  last,  "  where  I  have 
dreamed  of  you,  where  I  fain  would  have  you, 
and  here  I  am  where  I  fain  would  be — at  your  feet." 

"  No,  no,  we  are  here  together.  That  is  better," 
she  made  answer.  "  You  should  be  by  my  side,  or 
you  should  be  here  and  I  there." 

It  was  the  strife  of  self-abnegation  that  well- 
nigh  sets  the  seal  divine  upon  human  passion. 

"  There  is  no  room  on  earth  for  another  where 
you  sit;  and  no  one  could  by  rights  be  by  your  side." 

"  Hush!"  she  answered  softly;  "  it  is  sacrilege." 

"  The  truth,  only  the  truth.  You  sum  up  hu- 
manity to  me.  I  want  no  one,  nothing  else.  I 
am  satisfied  with  the  satisfaction  that  craves  a  little 


112  The  Records 


more  and  receives  a  little  more  with  each  passing 
hour." 

"  And  I,  too,  want  nothing  else.  We  are  here 
together,  alone,  the  world  below  us,  beneath  us,  in 
the  distant  beyond,  or  in  the  swift-vanishing  past." 

"  Would  you  like  it  to  be  so  always?" 

"Forever!" 

"  Listen!     Kay,  first  look." 

As  he  spoke,  he  rose  and  pointed  far  down  the 
mountain. 

"  Follow  my  hand,"  he  said;  "  there!  " 

Her  glance  swept  along  the  outstretched  arm. 

"Why,  it  is  a  heart!"  she  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,  Lake  Heart,  I  named  it.  At  the  head  of 
the  lake  there  is  a  little  hill.  Do  you  see  it?" 

"  Distinctly." 

"  It  overlooks  that  little  heart-shaped  stretch  of 
water.  See  how  it  nestles  on  the  side  of  this  great 
mountain.  Opposite  it  lies  another  mountain.  One 
standing  there  would  have  the  whole  sweep  of  this 
mighty  range  in  full  view.  On  that  little  knoll  I 
would  build  a  house — our  house.  Build  it  out  of  the 
fragrant  pines  that  shade  the  mountain  sides.  Rude 
it  should  be  on  the  outside;  the  interior  I  would 
line  with  mother-of-pearl.  There  we  would  go.  It 
would  be  silent,  still.  No  one  could  come  there; 
we  would  be  alone.  I  could  paint;  you  could  help 
me.  You  could  write;  perhaps  I  could  help  you. 
We  would  be  far  away  from  the  world.  We  need 
not  know  from  day  to  day  how  the  current  of  human 
passion  ebbed  and  flowed  out  yonder,  who  lived  or 


'Stop  !  "  he  cried  ; 

'just  as  you  are!" — Page   113 


Divided  113 

who  died,  who  rose  or  who  fell,  but  we  would  work 
and  live  and  love — together." 

"  It  is  enough,"  said  the  woman;  "  when  I  am 
free  I  will  go  with  you." 

"  Because  I  suggested  it?  " 

"  Because  I  want  no  greater  happiness  than 
that." 

"  It  shall  be  so,"  said  the  man,  putting  out  his 
hand. 

Unhesitatingly  she  met  it  with  her  own,  rising 
at  the  same  time  under  some  controlling  impulse. 
The  contract  was  ratified  by  no  kiss,  no  enfolding 
embrace,  not  by  heart  beating  against  heart,  but 
by  that  simple,  strong,  pervading  clasp.  They  were 
facing  the  future  hand  in  hand.  It  was  he  who 
broke  the  pause. 

"  Stop!  "  he  cried;  "  just  as  you  are!  " 

She  stood  slightly  bent  forward,  her  weight  rest- 
ing upon  her  right  foot,  her  left  hand  upon  the 
rocky  arm,  her  right  hand  outstretched  and  warm 
from  his  clasp.  She  had  taken  off  the  knitted  moun- 
tain cap  she  wore,  and  the  soft  wind  of  the  evening 
— it  was  absolutely  calm  in  the  valley  and  but  the 
slightest  current  of  air  stirred  on  the  mountain- 
top — swept  her  hair,  lightened  by  the  sun's  last 
kiss,  back  from  her  sweet  low  brow.  The  dark  blue 
of  her  dress  blended  with  the  weather-beaten  backr 
ground  of  the  ancient  mountain.  There  was  a  dash 
of  color  in  her  usually  pale  cheeks.  She  was  a  sight 
to  make  a  man  forget  the  world. 

Pencil  and  paper,  which  he  was  never  without, 


114  The  Records 


were  in  his  hands.  Swiftly,  as  one  would  fain  seize 
and  hold  a  final  moment,  he  sketched  the  outlines 
of  the  picture,  her  head  and  shoulders,  partly  turned 
from  him,  rising  in  silhouette  against  the  pale  gray- 
ness  of  the  eastern  sky.  Catching  some  of  the 
•spirit  that  actuated  him,  she  held  her  pose  motion- 
less for  what  seemed  to  be  an  incredible  time.  Sud- 
denly the  sun  dropped  behind  the  screen  of  hills. 
Her  hand  fell  to  her  side.  The  sketch  was  over; 
she  was  weary.  She  tottered,  and  would  have  fallen, 
but  that  he  held  her  close.  There  had  been  some- 
thing so  tense,  so  nervous,  in  the  situation,  she  was 
overwhelmed  with  sudden  feeling. 

"  How  thoughtless  of  me !  "  he  cried,  remorse- 
ful, seeing  her  weakness. 

"Did  you  finish?" 

"  Yes." 

They  stood  together  for  one  last  glimpse.  There 
were  deep  shadows  in  the  valleys;  the  light  was 
gone  from  the  little  lakes;  the  emerald  of  the  pines 
was  turned  into  shrouding  darkness.  Here  and  there 
in  front  of  them,  the  fading  light  streamed  softly 
beyond  the  crest  of  hills  in  pale,  nebulous  bars. 
Before  them,  clear  and  cold,  gleamed  a  sudden  silver 
star  in  the  twilight.  It  was  strangely  cold.  She 
shivered  slightly  in  his  arms. 

"  I  can  paint  it  now,"  he  said;  "  it  has  the  human 
touch  of  human  life  at  last." 

He  drew  gently  and  carefully  from  the  edge  of 
the  sheer  precipice  and  together  they  turned  away. 


Divided  115 


She  was  the  last  representative  of  an  ancient 
colonial  family  which  had  owned  large  estates  on  the 
banks  of  the  Delaware  in  New  Jersey  for  genera- 
tions. Her  father — a  stern,  cold,  unsympathetic 
man,  forever  in  arms  against  her  because  she  had 
not  been  a  son — had  spent  much  of  his  early  life 
in  England,  where  he  had  been  educated,  where 
he  had  imbibed  habits,  thoughts  and  prejudices 
which  are  outside  of  and  beyond  the  realm  of  books. 
The  estates  had  come  to  him  heavily  encumbered, 
and  he  had  not  succeeded  in  diminishing  the  charges 
upon  them.  An  opportunity  to  recoup  the  family 
fortunes  had  been  provided  through  the  beauty  of 
his  daughter  and  the  passion — the  more  powerful 
and  persistent  because  it  was  that  of  an  old  man — 
of  a  friend  of  his  whose  estates  adjoined  his  own. 

She  had  known  this  man  for  years,  and  to  know 
him  was  to  esteem  and  like  him.  She  was  a  deli- 
cately nurtured,  retiring  girl,  educated  mainly  at 
home  in  accordance  with  her  father's  ideas.  She 
had  seen  nothing  of  the  outside  world,  and  it  was 
quite  natural,  therefore,  that,  at  her  father's  insist- 
ence, and  at  the  pleading  of  the  old  man,  who  really 
loved  her,  she  had  engaged  herself  to  marry  him. 
The  state  of  her  health  had  caused  her  father  to 
send  her  to  spend  the  summer  in  the  mountains. 
One  of  his  friends  had  a  camp  there,  and  he  had  in- 
vited the  girl  to  be  his  guest. 


116  The  Records 


Her  sojourn  had  been  in  every  way  beneficial. 
Her  health  had  improved  greatly,  the  pulmonary 
tendency  which  had  so  alarmed  her  father  and  her 
betrothed  had  disappeared.  Altogether  it  had  been 
a  satisfactory  experiment  except  in  one  particular. 
This  untutored,  inexperienced  girl,  pledged  to  a  man 
as  old  as  her  father,  for  whom  she  had  no  feeling 
other  than  respect  and  esteem — this  unworldly 
child  of  an  artificial  rearing,  without  knowledge  or 
experience  of  life — had  been  brought  face  to  face 
with  nature  in  more  shapes  than  river  and  lake, 
mountain  and  valley. 

In  the  camp  there  was  another  guest,  a  young 
artist,  whose  reputation  was  already  national.  As 
the  clear  air,  the  bright  sunlight,  the  fragrant  balm 
of  the  pine-clad  hills,  had  entered  her  being,  and 
she  had  drunk  in  nature,  so  also  had  the  passion  of 
the  man,  which  had  sprung  into  existence  at  a 
glance,  entered  her  soul.  She  had  been  made  over 
physically,  and  spiritually  as  well.  For  the  first  time 
in  her  life,  she  knew  what  love  was.  She  found  its 
reality  beyond  all  the  artless  dreams  in  which  she 
had  indulged.  He  had  surprised  her  in  her  inno- 
cence and  inexperience,  and  she  had  yielded  her  af- 
fection to  him  without  hesitation,  almost  without 
thought. 

It  was  not  until  she  had  found  herself  pledged 
to  him,  and  the  natural  demand  of  her  lover  that 
she  should  name  some  day  upon  which  he  could 
claim  her  for  his  own,  was  pressed  upon  her,  that 
she  realized  that  she  was  bound  to  another.  Her 


Divided  117 

conceptions  of  honor  were  as  strong  and  inflexible 
as  the  rocky  trails  that  had  upborne  her  in  many  a 
beloved  walk  with  him  among  the  hills;  while  her 
ideas  of  the  obedience  due  from  child  to  parent  were 
as  deep-rooted  as  those  of  her  father.  Sometimes, 
as  on  the  crest  of  that  final  cloud-piercing  peak,  she 
forgot  what  lay  behind.  The  fetters  of  custom  and 
habit  and  honor  fell  away;  her  passion  rose  with  his 
own,  and  swept  her  into  a  new  world  which  knew 
nothing  but  the  love  they  bore  for  each  other. 

But  it  was  not  always  so,  and  then  the  man  tried 
to  reason  with  her;  he  even  tried  to  laugh  her  scru- 
ples to  scorn.  The  most  that  she  would  promise,  in 
her  serious  moments,  was  that  if  by  any  honorable 
method  she  could  be  released  from  her  obligation, 
and  could  win  her  father's  consent,  she  would  give 
herself  to  him  unreservedly. 

She  had  lingered  in  this  lover's  paradise,  hesitant 
and  reluctant  to  put  her  fate  to  the  touch,  and  he, 
thinking  to  bind  her  the  more  irrevocably,  had  en- 
couraged her  to  delay.  But  they  had  come  out  of 
the  world  of  dreams  in  which  they  had  lived  at 
last,  and  finally  she  made  the  plunge.  She  wrote  to 
her  father  of  this  new  love  in  her  heart,  and  begged 
him  to  consent,  and  to  secure  the  consent  of  the  man 
to  whom  she  was  betrothed,  to  the  breaking  of  the 
old  engagement  and  the  making  of  the  new.  The 
answer  came  back  after  many  days,  for  this  was 
long  ago  and  the  facilities  of  travel  were  not  what 
they  are  at  present.  That  answer  was  a  prompt, 


118  The  Records 


unqualified  negative,  with  a  peremptory  demand 
that  she  should  return  home  immediately. 

Cast  down,  but  not  despairing,  she  wrote  again. 
This  time  not  only  to  her  father  but  to  the  other 
man.  The  two  old  men  must  have  considered  the 
letters  together,  for  the  letter  that  came  back  was 
from  both.  The  father  pointed  out  the  worldly  ad- 
vantages of  the  match,  laid  upon  her  with  all  the 
force  in  his  possession  the  duty  of  obedience  to  a 
parent,  and  linked  and  fettered  the  woman  with  the 
chains  of  an  obligation,  a  plighted  word,  an  honor 
to  maintain. 

The  old  lover  pleaded  and  made  many  promises. 
One  more  effort  the  girl  made.  She  wrote  this 
time  to  her  father  alone  and  told  him  that  she  could 
not  live  without  this  man.  That  into  her  lonely 
life  this  love  had  blossomed,  how  and  why  she  could 
not  tell.  It  had  entwined  itself  around  the  founda- 
tions of  her  existence  and  to  uproot  it  meant  de- 
struction. Life  and  love — they  went  together.  She 
would  obey  him  thus  far — she  would  come  home 
immediately  and  reinforce  her  plea  with  her  per- 
sonal appeal.  But  she  begged  him  to  write  her  at  a 
place  appointed  on  her  return  journey. 

Then  they  separated,  these  two.  The  girl  made 
no  secret  of  her  love;  indeed,  she  could  not,  nor  had 
she  the  desire.  He  pleaded  with  her,  and  her  only 
appeal  from  him  was  her  consciousness  of  duty,  her 
sense  of  obligation;  and  before  that  he  bowed,  he 
fell,  and  where  he  fell  there  he  would  fain  have  died. 


Divided  119 

"  If,"  she  said,  at  last,  "  I  can  do  it  with  honor, 
I  will  come  back  to  you.  If  not,  I  bid  you  farewell." 

When  they  parted,  it  was  as  if  death  had  stepped 
between  them.  As  she  had  said,  she  went  alone 
down  the  mighty  river  and  across  the  great  lake  on 
her  homeward  way.  When  she  reached  the  hotel 
by  the  side  of  the  water,  the  roar  of  whose  falls 
fills  the  ear  with  a  strange  yet  terrible  sound,  she 
found  a  letter  from  her  father  in  answer  to  her  last 
one. 

"  You  must  come  'home.  You  must  marry  the 
man  to  whom  you  have  plighted  yourself,  and  to 
whom  I  have  passed  my  word.  Your  duty,  your 
honor,  call  you.  You  must  forget  this  other  man." 

That  was  all.  After  she  read  it,  she  sat  still  and 
thought  upon  it;  and  as  she  thought,  the  bitterness 
of  death  passed  away  from  her.  She  wrote  a  few 
words  to  her  father,  a  few  words  of  explanation 
without  justifying  herself  at  all.  Then  she  drew 
another  sheet  of  paper  closer  and  wrote  upon  it  her 
lover's  name.  Then  she  stopped.  There  was  noth- 
ing that  she  could  say  to  him  then  that  she  had  not 
said  before,  nothing  that  she  could  tell  him  now 
that  she  had  not  told  him  often.  Where  she  was 
going  she  could  not  tell,  but  she  did  not  believe 
there  was  a  place  on  earth  or  in  heaven  from  which 
her  soul  could  not  speak  to  his.  He  would  know 
and  understand.  Love  could  bridge  whatever  gap 
there  might  be. 

She  left  the  letter  for  her  father  on  the  table, 
nothing  else.  She  went  down  to  the  river  bank  and 


120  The  Records 


walked  up  it  during  the  long  afternoon,  under  the 
wild  blazoning  of  the  autumn  leaves,  until  she  found 
a  boat.  She  cast  it  adrift  and  seized  the  oars.  He 
had  taught  her  how  to  use  them.  She  was  rtry 
tired  from  her  long  walk,  but  she  resolutely  drove 
it  into  the  middle  of  the  stream. 

Although  she  was  now  far  above  the  falls,  the 
current  was  already  swift.  It  needed  a  stronger  and 
more  powerful  arm  than  hers  to  cope  witli  that 
mighty  downward  rush  of  water;  his  might  have 
accomplished  it,  but  not  hers  alone.  Out  in  the 
middle  of  the  river,  where  the  full  force  of  the  cur- 
rent caught  her,  she  cast  adrift  the  oars.  With  the 
swiftness  of  thought  itself,  she  was  swept  down. 
She  sat  low  in  the  center  of  the  boat,  her  head 
buried  in  her  arms,  her  arms  folded  on  her  bended 
knees. 

She  was  thinking  of  him,  of  that  peak  on  the 
mountain-top,  of  that  little  lake  like  a  heart  in  that 
sequestered  valley  where  they  had  planned  to  spend 
the  long  years  of  their  life  She  had  closed  her  eyes 
— she  needed  no  other  light.  She  was  thinking  of 
him. 

The  roaring  of  the  falls  broke  on  her  ear  un- 
heeded. There  were  people  upon  the  shore.  She 
swept  by  a  little  island  and  did  not  hear  the  shrill, 
terror-full  cries  of  those  who  watched  her  not  a 
stone's  throw  away.  The  boat  rocked  and  pitched 
frightfully. 

She  was  drenched  with  spray,  thrown  this  side 
and  that.  Instinctively  she  put  out  her  hand  to 


Divided  121 

steady  herself,  raised  her  head,  opened  her  eyes. 
She  was  on  the  brink.  She  lifted  her  hands  high 
in  the  air  as  if  to  grasp  a  mountain  peak.  She  saw 
a  face  as  in  a  dream. 

m 

Back  in  the  hills  he  waited,  with  a  growing  cer- 
tainty that  his  wait  would  never  be  terminated.  It 
was  a  month,  perhaps,  before  he  learned  the  whole 
truth.  When  the  realization  came  to  him,  he  fled 
to  the  mountain-top  once  more.  Again  he  stood 
upon  the  giddy  verge.  One  little  movement,  one 
relaxation  of  the  muscles  even,  and  he  was  gone. 
Death  would  meet  him  in  mid-air  long  before  he 
pitched  upon  the  rocks  hid  in  the  pines  at  the  foot 
of  the  cliff.  As  he  stood  there  hesitant,  yet  deter- 
mined, his  eye  fell  upon  the  little  lake  shaped  like 
a  heart,  silvery  again  in  the  emerald  as  on  the  day 
they  had  planned  their  future.  Death!  It  was 
nothing.  ~No  death  could  separate  love  like  theirs. 
Though  he  was  here,  and  she  was  there,  there  was 
nothing  between;  they  were  side  by  side.  He  would 
carry  out  the  plan.  He  would  abide  there  and  she 
would  be  with  him.  He  kissed  the  spot  where  she 
had  been  enthroned  and  plunged  down  the  moun- 
tains. 

On  that  softly  rounded  knoll,  he  built  that  great 
log  house  of  which  they  had  dreamed.  He  built 
it  slowly  from  year  to  year,  and  mainly  with  his  own 
hands,  with  as  little  assistance  as  the  requirements  of 


122  The  Records 


the  situation  necessitated.  And  there  he  lived  alone. 
Save  for  an  occasional  visit  to  the  nearest  settlement 
for  the  necessaries  'of  life,  he  saw  no  one.  The 
country  was  still  a  virgin  wilderness.  After  a  time, 
he  laid  aside  his  brush  forever,  but  for  occupation 
he  added  to  his  lodge ;  he  made  trails  from  the  cabin 
to  the  summits  of  the  everlasting  hills  about  him. 
He  roamed  the  mountains.  Often  from  the  low 
mountain  which  he  named  for  her,  he  watched  the 
peak  where  they  had  planned.  In  the  long  winters 
he  had  his  books,  and  now  and  again  a  wild  four- 
footed  friend  who  found  him  unique  in  the  race  of 
men  in  that  he  was  not  an  enemy.  Indeed,  he  loved 
all  except  his  kind. 

One  day,  a  wandering  hunter,  a  halfbreed,  French 
and  Indian,  fell  prostrate  before  the  cabin  door. 
He  was  desperately  ill.  The  man  took  him  in  and 
nursed  him  back  to  health.  The  grateful  halfbreed 
refused  to  leave  him.  He  was  as  silent  as  his  self- 
imposed  master,  and  the  two  thenceforth  lived  to- 
gether. Solitude  was  not  a  passion  with  the  artist, 
though.  Indeed,  he  did  not  know  the  word;  he 
was  never  lonely,  for  as  he  walked  the  hills  she 
was  ever  by  his  side. 

So  the  years  sped  away.  Railroads  pierced  the 
region.  Great  hotels  rose  upon  the  banks  of  its 
thousand  lakes.  It  became  the  playground,  the  place 
of  summer  rest,  for  hundreds  of  thousands  of  people. 
He  was  not  poor  and  he  had  bought  a  vast  expanse 
of  territory,  as  much  as  his  means  would  permit, 
for  himself.  He  owned  the  valley,  the  lake,  the 


Divided  123 

mountain  sides,  and  he  allowed  no  one  to  settle 
there;  but  he  could  not  prevent  people  from  wan- 
dering thither.  From  time  to  time,  at  nightfall, 
those  explorers  or  travelers  sought  shelter  at  the 
lodge.  And  it  was  freely  given  them. 

Solitude  had  not  dimmed  the  courtesy  of  the 
gentleman,  or  impaired  the  claims  of  hospitality. 
The  great  lodge  with  its  many  rooms,  its  high  obser- 
vatory tower,  was  theirs.  They  could  roam  at  will 
through  it.  But  there  was  one  part  in  it  that  no 
human  eye  save  his  had  ever  seen,  its  threshold 
no  human  foot  save  his  had  ever  crossed;  not  even 
the  halfbreed,  who  had  been  his  companion  in  his 
exile  for  so  many  years,  knew  what  was  there. 

This  was  a  great  "  L "  that  ran  from  one  side 
of  the  building  in  the  most  open  portion  of  the  clear- 
ing. There  was  no  window  to  it,  the  curious  ob- 
served. If  lighted  at  all  it  must  have  been  through 
the  roof.  There  was  no  door  save  that  which 
opened  from  his  own  private  apartment.  Thought- 
less people  had  asked  him  about  it,  but  no  one  had 
ever  asked  him  after  the  first  time.  It  was  a  mys- 
tery which  they  could  not  solve. 

He  would  have  preferred  to  be  left  alone,  entirely 
alone,  with  her.  He  loved  the  winter,  for  then 
the  deep  snows  rendered  the  lodge  impossible  of 
access  for  any  one.  But  the  spring,  before  the  peo- 
ple came  back  to  the  wilderness,  was  the  most  joy- 
ous season  of  the  year  to  him.  In  the  perennial 
freshness  of  reproducing  nature,  there  was  a  more 
congenial  atmosphere  for  her  and  love.  His  pas- 


124  The  Records 


sion  burned  still  in  his  breast  as  he  had  been  a  boy 
again. 

He  was  a  gray-haired  old  man  now.  She  had  been 
by  his  side  for  thirty  years,  yet  she  stepped  along 
with  the  same  airy  freshness  and  innocence  of  girl- 
hood of  a  youth  eternal.  Her  eyes  looked  at  him 
with  the  same  brightness  as  in  the  days  of  long  ago. 
Time  had  stood  still  for  her,  as  the  world  had  stood 
still  for  him  since  they  had  been — united. 

That  spring,  there  was  a  great  drought  in  the 
land.  Not  a  drop  of  rain  laved  the  parched  and 
weary  earth  for  months.  When  the  long  days  of  June 
came,  a  party  of  careless  campers  left  a  partly  ex- 
tinguished fire  in  the  forest.  The  live  coals  burrowed 
in  subtle  concealment  under  the  thick  carpet  of  pine- 
needles  which  had  fallen  since  the  days  of  the  forest 
primeval,  the  fire  coal  growing  greater  and  greater 
as  it  wormed  its  way  along,  until,  by  and  by,  a 
little  brush  heap  burst  into  a  glowing  flame,  which 
surged  about  the  base  of  a  mountain  monarch  until 
he  yielded  to  the  burning  embrace,  and  in  turn  com- 
municated the  contagion  of  his  fiery  passion  to  a  sis- 
ter tree,  and  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  the  forest 
was  ablaze. 

He  discovered  the  peril  immediately,  and  realized 
after  a  brief  inspection  that  the  course  of  his  life 
would  be  forever  changed  unless  by  some  means 
the  fire  could  be  diverted,  for  a  mighty  army  of 
flame  was  blazing  down  upon  him  and  his  beloved 
lodge. 

What  could  two  men  do  to  stop  such  a  besom  of 


Divided  125 

destruction?  "Working  with  frantic  energy,  the  two 
toiled  with  the  strength  of  ten.  Even  the  half- 
breed,  who  had  not  lived  with  his  silent  master  for 
so  many  years  without  catching  some  of  the  latter' s 
purpose,  worked  like  a  hero,  but  with  no  avail.  In- 
deed, while  they  labored  at  one  point  the  blaze  swept 
by  them  on  either  side,  and  they  were  forced  back 
to  the  cabin,  exhausted,  half  dead  with  fatigue  and 
apprehension,  in  the  very  focus  of  an  eclipse  of 
fire.  A  sudden  strengthening  of  the  wind  already 
storming  down  the  valley  swept  the  flame  upon 
them.  The  end  of  the  lodge  nearest  the  avalanche 
of  fire  was  already  blazing. 

The  man  stood  and  gazed  upon  it,  hopeless,  im- 
potent, broken-hearted.  The  halfbreed  seized  him 
by  the  arm  to  drag  him  away.  The  man  shook  his 
head,  staring  immovable  a  moment.  Then,  motion- 
ing backward,  without  turning,  as  if  to  signal  the 
halfbreed  to  escape  while  there  was  yet  time,  he 
stepped  toward  the  smoke-enshrouded  door.  A  cry 
from  the  man  caused  him  to  turn  around.  The 
halfbreed  was  lying  helpless  on  the  ground  bleeding 
from  a  wound  in  his  leg.  A  sharp  woodman's  axe 
lay  near  at  hand.  It  was  no  accident,  though  the 
man  never  suspected  that.  The  faithful  follower 
had  cut  himself  in  order  to  produce  the  result  his 
love  craved — to  make  his  master  come  away.  The 
man  stood  irresolute  at  the  sight.  But  he  could  not 
leave  the  other  man  to  die,  so  with  a  groan  he 
turned,  seized  the  slighter  man  in  his  arms,  and 
plunged  down  through  the  trees  toward  the  lake. 


126  The  Records 


It  was  a  terrible  passage,  for  the  tops  of  the  pines 
were  crackling  with  fire  above  his  head.  There  was 
a  boat  on  the  lake.  The  lake  itself  was  small,  but 
the  only  possibility  of  escape  was  upon  its  surface. 
He  laid  his  wounded  companion  gently  down  in  the 
canoe  and  put  the  paddle  in  his  hands.  But  he  did 
not  follow.  He  pushed  the  boat  violently  from  him 
and  sent  it  spinning  out  into  the  lake.  Then  he 
waved  his  hands  in  farewell,  turned  and  staggered 
backward  through  the  smoke  and  fire.  This  time 
he  did  not  hear  the  frantic  call  from  the  man  in  the 
boat,  nor  did  he  see  him  ply  his  paddle  madly,  so 
that  the  boat  was  driven  back  to  the  shore  whence  it 
had  been  thrust  away. 

The  man  plunged  into  the  smoke  and  flame,  full 
of  desperate  endeavor  yet  not  unmindful  of  re- 
quired caution.  He  carefully  shielded  his  head 
until  he  reached  the  house.  People  had  often  no- 
ticed the  letters,  his  and  her  initials,  wrought  in 
the  bark  of  the  rail  around  the  porch,  wondering 
what  they  meant.  This  time  they  were  outlined  in 
fire,  for  the  house  was  burning.  The  heat  was  ter- 
rific and  the  smoke  suffocating. 

The  man  sank  down  upon  the  threshold  dying. 
He  raised  himself  by  a  superhuman  effort.  He  could 
not  die  there.  In  his  extremity  a  figure  stood  beside 
him  and  helped  him;  a  cool,  slender  hand  was  slipped 
in  his.  A  voice  whispered  in  his  ear.  He  was  on 
his  feet  once  more.  Youth  and  strength  returned 
to  him.  Plunging  into  the  house  with  unswerving 
accuracy,  in  spite  of  the  darkness,  he  threaded  his 


Divided  127 

way  through  the  maze  of  rooms.  By  and  by,  he 
came  to  a  door.  He  was  gasping  for  breath;  his 
heart  was  beating  violently.  He  had  striven  to  pro- 
tect his  face,  yet  through  the  blackened  lips  he  had 
inhaled  the  flames.  The  hand  of  death  was  upon 
him.  But  the  hand  of  life  and  love  was  clasped 
within  his  own.  He  opened  the  door. 

IY 

"By  Jove!"  said  one  of  the  men  to  the  other, 
"what's  that?" 

"  It  looks  like  a  house,"  returned  his  companion. 

"  It  is  a  house,"  said  their  guide. 

"  It  was  once,  you  mean,"  said  the  first  speaker; 
"  it's  about  burned  up  now." 

"  There's  a  piece  of  it  left  standing  yet,  though," 
returned  the  guide. 

"  The  rain  came  just  in  the  nick  of  time,"  said  the 
second  man. 

"  It  did  indeed,"  said  the  other.  "  If  the  wind 
had  not  changed  with  the  rain,  the  whole  valley 
would  have  been  swept  as  bare  as  that  upper  end 
of  it." 

"I  wonder  if  anybody  was  there?" 

"  I  guess  there  was,"  said  the  guide. 

"  Do  you  know  anything  about  the  place?" 

"  Well,  there's  a  story  that  there  was  once  a  man, 
a  painter,  that  was  disapp'inted  in  love  in  some  way 
or  other,  who  came  here  an'  built  this  house.  He 
lived  here  alone,  though  of  late  years  parties  of 


128  The  Records 


hunters  an'  trampers  for  pleasure  used  to  come 
through  this  valley  an'  spend  a  night  with  him." 

"  I  wonder  if  he  escaped?" 

"  I  guess  so,"  answered  the  guide.  "  He  lived 
long  enough  in  these  woods  to  know  danger.  He 
had  plenty  of  warnin'  of  that  fire." 

"  Did  you  say  he  was  an  artist?"  asked  the  second 
man,  who  carried  sketching  materials  in  his  hand. 

"  I  guess  that's  what  they  said  round  here  he 
was,"  returned  the  guide. 

"  Well,  that  accounts  for  it.  I  recall  the  story 
now.  My  father  used  to  know  him.  He  had  a  cot- 
tage over  there  in  Greene  Valley,  years  ago.  He's 
got  some  pictures  painted  by  that  man  now — at  least 
I  have;  they  were  left  to  me — and  splendid  things 
they  are,  too.  I  remember  he  told  me  something  of 
his  life.  The  girl  committed  suicide  and  the  man 
became  a  recluse." 

"  That's  the  man,"  said  the  guide,  confidently. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  him?"  asked  the  first  man, 
shifting  his  gun  as  he  spoke. 

"  Never  seen  him  that  I  kin  remember." 

"  Let  us  go  over  and  see  if  he  is  there.  Per- 
haps he  may  not  have  escaped  after  all,"  suggested 
the  artist. 

"  All  right.  And  there's  a  canoe,"  said  the  hun- 
ter, pointing  along  the  shore  to  where  a  little  boat 
had  drifted. 

The  guide  easily  reached  it,  and  in  a  few  moments 
brought  it  down  to  the  point  of  the  lake  where  the 
two  men,  one  making  sketches  and  the  other  accom- 


Divided  129 

panying  him  gun  in  hand,  had  entered  the  desolated 
valley.  The  paddle  was  still  in  the  canoe.  The 
halfbreed  had  been  a  methodical  man. 

In  a  short  time  the  little  party  of  three  had  ap- 
proached the  upper  end  of  the  lake.  They  tied 
the  canoe  and  clambered  out  on  the  little  wharf. 

"  What's  that  ?"  cried  one,  pointing  ahead. 

There  amid  the  half-burned  trees  lay  a  dead  body. 
It  was  the  halfbreed.  He  was  lying  prone  on  his 
face,  his  knees  drawn  up  as  if  he  had  been  crawling 
forward. 

"  By  Jove!"  said  the  hunter,  "  do  you  see  how  he 
is  turned?  He  was  crawling  toward  the  house." 

"  Why  not  walking,  I  wonder,"  said  the  artist. 

"  See  that  leg?"  said  the  guide.  "  He  must  have 
hurt  himself." 

"  I'm  going  to  the  house,"  interrupted  the  artist, 
leaping  up  the  slope. 

Where  the  threshold  had  been,  the  others  joined 
him.  The  house  had  been  burned  to  ashes,  except 
one  long  portion  of  it  which,  they  noticed  at  the 
moment,  had  no  windows.  They  made  their  way 
over  the  charred  ruins  toward  it,  and  when  they 
reached  it  they  discovered  that  it,  too,  had  been  on 
fire.  A  portion  of  the  side  and  of  the  roof  nearest 
the  approaching  flames  had  gone,  and  the  rain  had 
flooded  the  first  room. 

That  room  was  a  bedroom.  Although  the  rain 
had  ruined  it,  the  men  saw  that  it  had  been  beauti- 
fully furnished,  yet  with  a  simplicity  not  out  of 
keeping  with  the  wild  mountains  about  it. 


130  The  Records 


It  was  quite  evident  that  it  had  been  a  woman's 
room,  too.  Nothing  was  lacking  to  it,  then,  but  the 
woman.  Yet,  although  no  woman  had  ever  been 
in  it,  and  but  one  man,  the  air  was  redolent  with  the 
sense  of  a  woman's  presence.  There  was  a  stone  fire- 
place at  one  end.  The  ashes  of  a  fire  lay  within  its 
depths.  Though  no  one  had  ever  lived  there,  it  was 
evident  that  a  fire  had  always  burned  upon  the 
hearth. 

The  light  in  the  room  must  have  come  from  the 
windows  in  the  roof.  No  eyes  but  his  had  ever  been 
able  to  see  in  it.  It  had  been  as  sacred  from  the 
curious  gaze  of  man  as  the  chamber  of  a  vestal. 
He  had  kept  it  so  for  her.  There  was  a  door  at 
the  other  end.  The  men  reverently  took  off  their 
hats  and,  treading  softly  over  the  thick  rugs  upon 
the  floor,  stepped  through  it  into  another  larger 
room. 

This  room,  like  the  first,  was  lighted  from  the 
roof.  It  was  empty  of  any  furniture.  Completely 
filling  the  wall  on  one  side  to  the  right  of  them 
was  a  marvellous  picture.  One  stood,  as  it  were, 
upon  the  verge  of  the  mountains.  There  were  the 
peaks  and  the  valleys,  the  silvery  waters,  the  em- 
erald of  the  pines.  There  was  a  sense  of  distance, 
of  appalling,  overwhelming  elevation.  The  eye 
swam  while  it  looked  at  it.  It  was  the  sublime 
transferred  to  the  canvas  by  a  master  hand. 

On  the  other  wall  opposite  to  it  there  rose  another 
picture,  a  mountain-peak  lifted  in  the  air.  They 
could  feel,  as  they  gazed,  that  the  world  fell  away 


Divided  131 

from  it  in  every  direction.  The  blue  sky,  unflecked 
by  a  single  cloud,  rose  overhead;  and  in  front,  upon 
the  apex  of  the  mountain,  there  stood  a  single  human 
figure.  The  blue  of  its  dress  contrasted  with  the 
gray  of  the  stones;  the  white,  clear  face  with  its 
dash  of  red,  with  its  eyes  of  blue,  seemed  to  com- 
prehend in  its  beauty  and  its  stillness  all  the  splen- 
dor and  mystery  of  the  world  on  the  other  side. 
It  was  the  Beautiful  caught  in  a  supreme  moment 
and  eternalized  by  love  and  feeling. 

Between  the  two  pictures  with  his  back  to  the 
world,  his  face  toward  the  mountain,  prone  upon 
the  floor,  with  outstretched  hand  toward  the  peak, 
lay  a  gray-haired  figure,  eternally  silent,  forever 
still. 

"My  God!"  said  the  hunter,  pointing.  "The 
man!" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  artist,  looking  higher  and  point- 
ing in  his  turn,  "  and  the  woman." 


Seventh  Record 

THE  APOTHEOSIS  OF  WOODWARD* 


George  Woodward's  familiarity  with  the  practi- 
cal side  of  railroading  was  exhaustive.  Nor  was 
he  ignorant  of  its  theoretical  aspect.  Thrown  on 
his  own  resources  at  a  very  early  age,  he  had  fol- 
lowed the  natural  course  of  youth  and  had  drifted 
on  the  empire  track — westward!  The  Trans-Con- 
tinental Railroad  Company,  in  the  hope  of  at  least 
approximating  its  name,  was  then  pushing  a  tenta- 
tive iron  feeler  across  what  was  popularly  known  as 
the  Great  American  Desert,  and  George  Woodward 
became  a  humble  but  busy  member  of  the  construc- 
tion corps.  Thus  he  learned  something  of  the  prin- 
ciples of  railroad  engineering,  and  acquired  much 
knowledge  of  the  practical  work  of  railroad  building. 
When  the  road  was  completed  his  ambition  naturally 
was  to  "  run  "  upon  it. 

From  the  round-house  he  went  to  the  tender,  and 
from  the  tender  to  the  cab.  The  day  on  which  he 
took  out  his  first  engine  on  his  first  run  was  the 
happiest  in  his  life.  He  had  reached  the  height  of 

*  By  courtesy  of  "  The  Cosmopolitan." 


134  The  Records 


his  ambition,  he  thought.  But  ambitions  change — 
God  be  thanked! — with  passing  years,  and  presently 
George  Woodward  did  a  strange  thing.  With  a 
sigh  of  regret  and  a  heart  pang  which  only  those 
may  know  who  have  held  the  throttle  of  a  great 
locomotive,  George,  of  his  own  motion,  deserted  the 
front  end  of  the  train  and  went  backward — that  is, 
he  began  braking  on  a  freight!  Everybody  re- 
monstrated with  him,  and  many  people  called  him 
a  fool,  but  Woodward  was  wiser  than  his  critics. 
Five  years  of  arduous  labor  in  various  capacities 
finally  earned  him  a  position  as  conductor  on  'a  first- 
class  passenger  run. 

The  railroad  company,  with  rare  forethought, 
provided  reading  rooms  for  its  employees.  The 
superintendent  of  the  reading  rooms  was  a  man  of 
liberal  education,  deep  culture,  and  what  is  not 
necessarily  a  concomitant  of  these,  of  sound  com- 
mon sense  as  well.  His  wisdom  and  experience  were 
freely  at  Woodward's  service.  The  books  he  needed 
the  superintendent  suggested  and  the  company  pro- 
vided. The  young  railroad  man  had  become  aware 
of  his  educational  deficiencies  before  it  was  too  late, 
and  in  his  rare  leisure  hours  he  became  a  close  stu- 
dent of  books.  Men  he  also  studied;  women  inter- 
ested him  but  little,  then.  People  who  watched  his 
progress,  whose  experience  in  life  was  not  so  deep 
as  their  observation  had  been  extensive,  used  to  say, 
as  they  marked  his  splendid  development,  that 
Woodward  must  have  had  good  blood  back  of  him 
somewhere;  a  most  common  but  undemocratic  state- 


The  Apotheosis  of  Woodward        135 

merit,  as  if  the  spirit  of  God  in  a  man  could  not  be 
independent  of  human  ancestry  on  a  pinch! 

Everybody  on  the  division  realized  that  Wood- 
ward was  in  line  for  promotion.  Vacancies  occurred 
not  infrequently  on  such  a  great  system  as  the 
Trans-Continental,  whose  tracks  stretched  from  the 
Mississippi  to  the  Pacific  seaboard.  It  was  gener- 
ally believed  that  Woodward  would  get  the  next 
one.  For  all  his  experience  Woodward  was  still 
young.  He  had  just  turned  twenty-eight  and  he 
could  afford  to  wait.  Although  swift  as  well  as  ac- 
curate in  his  methods,  he  possessed  an  ample  supply 
of  that  patience  without  which  achievement  can- 
not be.  He  was  a  good  waiter,  therefore,  or  rather 
he  had  been  until  the  advent  of  Helen  Blount  on 
the  system. 

Miss  Blount  knew  the  system  rather  well  herself; 
nor  was  her  knowledge  of  railroading  to  be  esteemed 
lightly.  That  knowledge,  however,  had  not  been 
acquired  by  hard  work.  She  saw  the  Trans-Conti- 
nental mainly  through  the  plate  glass  windows,  or 
from  the  observation  platform  of  her  father's  pri- 
vate car.  What  she  knew  of  it  she  learned  from 
him,  and  certainly  he  was  fully  competent  to  in- 
struct her.  The  experienced  reader  will  at  once 
surmise  that  her  father  was  president  of  the  road, 
and  that  to  the  inevitable  development  of  stories 
of  this  kind  it  was  necessary  that  Woodward  should 
fall  desperately  in  love  with  her.  It  would  be  a 
pity  to  shock  the  experienced  reader  by  denying  the 
conclusion.  He,  or  she,  is  right,  with  this  qualifica- 


136  The  Records 


tion,  that  old  General  Blount  was  the  fourth  vice- 
president,  the  general  manager  only.  The  President 
sat  in  his  elegantly  appointed  suite  of  offices,  one 
room  at  a  time,  in  Wall  Street,  and  manipulated 
stocks  and  bonds.  General  Blount  ran  the  road.  It 
must  be  admitted  that  he  ran  it  well. 

The  mountain  division,  which  began  on  the  edge 
of  the  desert,  crossed  the  great  divide  and  terminated 
on  the  edge  of  another  desert,  was  the  longest  and 
hardest  to  run.  The  best  men  were  concentrated  on 
that  division.  There  was  always  something  happen- 
ing to  make  things  interesting.  Although  the  coun- 
try was  as  rainless  during  most  of  the  year  as  a 
Sahara,  at  the  most  unexpected  times  clouds  would 
gather  and  burst,  and  miles  of  track  would  be  washed 
out.  The  rocky  cliffs  of  the  range  had  an  incon- 
venient practice  of  disintegrating  and  dumping  a 
train  load  of  material  on  the  track  at  the  most  in- 
opportune periods.  The  private  car  of  the  general 
manager  was  more  often  seen  on  that  division  than 
any  other.  Naturally,  the  best  conductor — that  was 
Woodward — took  the  great  Trans-Continental 
"  Flyers  "  over  that  stretch  of  track  with  the  pri- 
vate car  trailing  on  behind. 

For  himself,  old  General  Blount  was  intensely 
democratic.  For  his  daughter,  equally  aristocratic. 
It  was  an  annoyance  to  him  that  Helen  insisted  upon 
accompanying  him  wherever  he  went.  But  the  old 
general  had  no  one  but  his  daughter  and  he  generally 
acquiesced  in  her  wishes — he  had  to!  He  used  to 
talk  freely  with  his  employees,  and  he  and  the  divi- 


The  Apotheosis  of  Woodward        137 

sion  superintendent,  a  veteran  and  experienced  rail- 
roader, would  often  invite  Woodward  back  into  the 
luxurious  observation  room  for  consultation  and  dis- 
cussion. Thus  the  poor  but  honest  and  enterprising 
young  man  met  the  highly  educated,  also  the  beau- 
tiful and  gracious,  if  somewhat  condescending, 
daughter  of  the  rich.  She  was  a  very  different  per- 
son from  the  women  with  whom  Woodward  had  been 
ordinarily  associated,  worthy  as  they  were,  and  she 
stimulated  his  ambition  amazingly. 

He  desired  a  wider  field,  a  more  responsible  posi- 
tion and  greater  authority,  not  merely  for  an  op- 
portunity to  exercise  those  talents  which  he  believed 
he  possessed — and  he  was  not  wrong  in  his  belief — 
but  above  all,  because  he  saw  her  on  his  horizon. 
Indeed,  she  was  his  horizon.  At  first  indifferent, 
then  amused,  then  interested,  and  then,  after  he 
had  taken  advantage  of  a  rare  opportunity  to  let  her 
see  the  real  state  of  his  feelings,  astonished,  some- 
what outraged,  then  hesitant,  then  trembling  on  the 
verge — her  experiences  were  quite  as  interesting  as 
his. 

Perhaps  the  thing  that  finally  turned  the  waver- 
ing scale  in  her  mind  was  the  knowledge  that  General 
Blount  would  never  permit  such  a  thing.  He  was  as 
friendly  as  possible  with  Woodward  and  men  of  his 
position;  but  then  there  was  not  the  slightest  possi- 
bility— so  the  old  general  might  have  reasoned — 
that  Woodward  or  anybody  else  would  desire  to 
marry  him.  When  it  came  to  his  daughter  it  was 
another  thing  entirely.  He  was  as  proud  as  Lucifer 


138  The  Records 


,and  infinitely  more  exclusive.  Indeed,  so  far  re- 
moved from  his  idea  was  such  a  possibility  that  his 
very  confidence  begot  a  carelessness  of  which  Wood- 
ward shrewdly  took  advantage. 

Helen's  will  was  as  strong  as  her  father's.  She 
didn't  like  to  be  crossed  any  more  than  any  other 
daughter  of  Eve.  The  general  was  a  fighter,  and 
although  no  one  could  have  imagined  it,  his  daugh- 
ter shared  his  qualities.  Besides,  Woodward,  in  spite 
of  certain  gaucheries  and  roughnesses  which  were 
outward  instead  of  inward,  was  really  an  admirable 
fellow.  Being  poor  and  honest,  to  make  a  satisfac- 
tory hero,  it  is  inevitable  that  he  should  also  be  good- 
looking  and  strong.  He  was. 

Also  he  loved  Helen  Blount  with  a  passion,  as  he 
would  have  phrased  it,  "  as  hot  as  a  new  compound 
oil  burner,"  the  simile  being  furnished  by  a  species 
of  engine  which  pulled  his  train.  He  hadn't  risen 
from  nothing  to  engineer  and  then  gone  back  to  the 
bottom  again  deliberately,  working  himself  up  to  his 
present  position,  without  exhibiting  a  dogged  deter- 
mination which  boded  ill  for  any  feminine  resistant 
heart.  He  literally  lived  for  the  advent  of  the 
general  manager's  car,  and  insensibly  Helen  Blount 
found  herself  living  for  the  advent  of  the  young  con- 
ductor. 

Grown  bolder  with  the  progress  of  his  love  affair, 
Woodward  had  finally  pleaded  openly  with  her  for 
her  consent  to  his  suit,  but  in  vain.  Although  he 
was  sure  she  loved  him,  she  had  withheld  it.  Natu- 
rally, therefore,  he  could  not  speak  to  her  father. 


The  Apotheosis  of  IVoodivard        139 

Being  an  honorable  young  man,  distinguished  by  the 
general's  friendship,  he  chafed  under  the  situation. 
There  are  seasons  in  which  the  wisest,  the  bravest, 
the  most  determined  of  men  are  helpless;  and  these 
are  they  which  depend  upon  a  young  woman's  "  yes  " 
or  "  no."  Helen  could  not  say  "  no  "  and  she  would 
not  say  "  yes."  Matters  dragged  along  in  this  way 
until  Woodward  finally  took  the  bull  by  the  horns — 
meaning  the  general,  not  Helen. 

For  once  Helen  did  not  accompany  her  father  over 
the  division  on  this  particular  inspection  trip.  Wood- 
ward, therefore,  found  the  general  alone.  He  told 
him  bluntly  enough,  for  he  was  not  a  man  of  a  great 
deal  of  finesse — that  is  the  veneer  of  civilization 
which  Woodward  had  not  yet  been  able  to  acquire — 
that  he  loved  his  daughter,  that  he  believed  she  loved 
him,  and  that  he  wished  to  marry  her.  Contrary  to 
his  expectation  the  old  man  did  not  explode.  The 
audacity  of  the  situation  amused  the  general.  What 
was  the  use  of  losing  one's  temper  over  the  prepos- 
terous, the  impossible? 

"  Have  you  spoken  to  Miss  Blount?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  have,  sir." 

"  Umph!     What  did  she  say?  " 

«  She—  well—" 

"  Did  she  consent  to  your  suit?  " 

"  Well,  no  sir,  not  exactly." 

"  Did  she  consent  in  any  degree  whatever? " 

"  I  must  admit  that — " 

"  Then  you  have  no  evidence  at  all  to  back  up  this 
extraordinary  statement  that  she — er — loves  you?  "• 


140  The  Records 


"  Plenty,  sir." 

"What  is  it?" 

The  evidence  naturally  being  of  an  intangible  and 
abstract  character,  it  was  difficult  to  put  his  meaning 
into  words  without  giving  offence.  Woodward  hes- 
itated, opened  his  mouth  two  or  three  times,  and 
ejaculated, 

"  Well,  sir,  I  think—" 

Then  he  stopped  short,  hopelessly  silent. 

"  My  boy,"  said  the  general  firmly  but  not  un- 
kindly, "  you  have  been  thinking  too  much.  It's 
dangerous,  especially  about  women.  I  like  you.  I 
know  all  about  your  career  and  I  have  watched  you 
carefully  for  several  years.  I  am  going  to  promote 
you,  at  least  I  intended  to  do  so,  at  the  first  oppor- 
tunity, but  you  must  abandon  further  pretence  to 
the  hand  of  my  daughter.  I  have  other  and  higher 
views  for  her  than — " 

"  I  did  not  believe  there  was  anything  higher  than 
the  love  of  an  honest  man,  sir." 

"  I  hope,"  said  the  general  sharply,  at  this  trite 
remark,  "  that  the  fact  that  I  have  ambitions  for  my 
daughter's  future  which  do  not  include  you  does  not 
necessarily  involve  her  marriage  with  a  scoundrel, 
sir!" 

"  Of  course  not,  sir,  but — " 

"  I  shall  speak  plainly,  Woodward.  You  are  an 
enterprising  ambitious  young  man,  who  has  accom- 
plished much  and  will  accomplish  much  more,  pro- 
vided you  keep  your  head  and  behave  yourself,  but 
you  are  not  in  any  way,  shape,  or  form,  my  daugh- 


The  Apotheosis  of  Woodward        141 

ter's  equal,  and — well,  the  long  and  the  short  of  the 
whole  thing  is,  I  won't  have  it!  " 

"  But,  sir,"  burst  forth  Woodward  impetuously, 
his  dark  face  flushing,  "  one  might  urge  from  what 
I  have  made  of  myself,  out  of  nothing,  that  I  shall 
some  day  even  rise  " — it  was  a  rash  thing  to  say,  but 
the  young  man  was  thoroughly  angered — "to  the  re- 
sponsible position  of  general  manager  of  the  Trans- 
Continental." 

"  What!  "  roared  General  Blount. 

"You  said  yourself  just  now,"  continued  Wood- 
ward resolutely,  "  that  I  was  marked  for  promotion." 

"  I  did,"  interrupted  the  other  man,  "  but  I  shall 
not  promote  you  unless  I  am  thoroughly  satisfied 
with  your  conduct.  Do  you  understand?  " 

"  Which  means  to  say  that  I  must  either  give  up 
my  hope  of  promotion  or  of — Miss  Blount." 

"By  gad,  sir!"  ejaculated  the  general  manager, 
"you  have  no  hope  of  Miss  Blount,  sir!  And  but 
little  of  promotion." 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  Woodward  quietly,  "  I  shall 
never  give  up  hope  of  either." 

"  It  happens,"  said  the  general,  "  that  I  control 
both  Miss  Blount  and  the  promotion." 

"  You  certainly  control  the  promotion,  but  as  to 
Miss  Blount — I  have  my  doubts." 

"  Your  doubts  and  your  thoughts  are  interesting 
but  they  are  too  much  for  me.  I  do  not  believe  that 
you  can  work  for  the  Trans-Continental  any  longer. 
Sit  down  at  the  desk  there  and  write  out  your  resig- 


142  The  Records 


nation,  sir!     I  will  have  a  time  check  made  out  for 
you  immediately." 

"  Not  work  for  the  Trans-Continental !  "  gasped 
Woodward.  "  Why,  I  began  with  the  road!  You 
can't  mean  it!  I  have  never  worked  for  anything 
else.  I  know  the  road  as  well  as  you  do,  and  I  love  it 
better!  You  can't  mean  to  discharge  me!  " 

"  I  do  mean  just  that,  unless  you  give  me  your 
word  here  and  now  that  you  will  give  up  this  foolish 
and  ridiculous  pretension  to  my  daughter's  hand." 
"  I  wouldn't  give  that  up  for  the  whole  system!  " 
"  Very  good.  You  lose  both.  There  is  the  table." 
"  Look  here,  sir,"  said  Woodward  stoutly,  "  you 
are  the  general  manager  of  this  railroad  and  I  am 
only  a  conductor,  but  I  am  a  man  and  I  believe  you 
to  be  one.  We  boys  out  on  the  division  have  been 
proud  of  you  and  of  your  record  as  a  railroad  man 
and  your  older  record  as  a  soldier.  I  don't  think  any 
of  them  would  be  proud  of  you  if  you  act  this  way. 
What  would  you  think  of  me,  of  any  man,  who  had 
an  ounce  of  ambition,  or  who  loved  a  woman  as  I 
love  your  daughter — there  is  no  insult  to  her  in 
loving  her,  is  there? — if  I  allowed  you  to  bluff  me 
in  this  way  and  would  say  I'd  give  up  my  hopes  of 
the  young  lady — and  God  knows  they  are  few 
enough! — for  the  sake  of  a  job?  What  would  you 
think  of  me?" 

"  I'd  think  you  were  an  infernal  cad,  sir,"  ad- 
mitted the  old  general,  somewhat  impressed  by  this 
presentation  of  the  case.  "  Well,  sir,  I'll  reconsider 
my  decision  in  part,  though  I  don't  often  do  it. 


The  Apotheosis  of  Woodward        143 

You  need  not  leave  the  road.  I  will  send  you  over 
to  the  valley  division.  But  mark  me,  sir!  I'm  not 
going  to  take  a  step  to  bring  you  any  nearer  to  a 
promotion,  not  a  step  to  aid  you  to  accomplish  your 
preposterous  ambitions." 

"  Excuse  me,  General,"  said  Woodward,  "  if  I 
don't  believe  you." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  sir?  " 

"  I  don't  believe  you're  the  kind  of  a  man  that 
would  turn  a  deserving  man  down  and  withhold  a 
promotion  which  had  been  earned  because  that  man 
had  ambitions  that  you  thought  were  preposterous. 
The  valley  division  is  nothing  compared  with  this. 
Railroading  there  is  as  peaceful  and  quiet  as  float- 
ing down  stream  in  a  scow,  but  I'll  do  my  best  there 
too.  And  I  assure  you  I'll  never  give  up  my  am- 
bitions as  long  as  I  live." 

The  train  was  pulling  into  the  station  just  then 
and  his  duties  gave  Woodward  an  opportunity  to  re- 
treat with  some  of  the  honors  of  war,  at  least.  The 
old  general  looked  at  him  not  without  certain  admira- 
tion. Rarely  had  he  been  so  braved  by  one  of  his 
employees  and  in  his  own  private  car,  and  he  rather 
enjoyed  it,  or  would,  if  it  had  not  been  for  Helen. 

"  Gad!  "  he  said  to  himself,  "  if  that  boy  had  more 
education  and  better  opportunities  I  should  be  afraid 
for  the  girl." 


144  The  Records 


n 


Thereafter,  until  Woodward  was  changed  to 
the  valley  division,  Miss  Helen  Blount  did  not  ac- 
company her  father  on  his  inspection  tours.  She 
wondered,  until  Woodward  found  means  to  convey 
to  her  the  substance  of  the  interview.  The  old  gen- 
eral did  not  mention  it.  There  was  something 
ominous  in  his  mind  in  the  statement  which  the  con- 
ductor had  made  to  him  that  he  thought  Helen  was 
not  indifferent  to  him.  The  general  was  afraid  to 
pursue  any  investigations  in  that  direction.  He 
feared  what  he  might  find  out.  He  was  not  without 
a  shrewd  suspicion  that  his  daughter's  spirit  matched 
his  own,  and,  like  a  prudent  soldier,  he  did  not  want 
an  unnecessary  clashing. 

Being  a  wise  man,  he  trusted  that  absence,  other 
scenes  and  companions  might  obliterate  impressions 
which  he  hoped  were  faint.  Some  women  would 
have  forgotten,  most  men  would  have  done  so.  These 
were  a  different  pair.  Woodward's  determination 
increased  with  every  day  and  his  passion  kept  pace. 
Helen  admitted  to  herself  that  she  loved  him,  and 
once  that  admission  was  made  every  mental  objection 
was  swept  away.  There  are  elements  which  are 
harmless  and  innocent  when  kept  to  themselves  but 
which  immediately  explode  upon  contact.  These 
two  needed  but  to  touch  each  other  to  produce  an 
explosion  which  would  blow  the  general's  house  of 
cards  about  his  ears  irreparably. 


The  Apotheosis  of  Woodward        145 

That  touch  came.  A  year  after  the  scene  in  the 
car,  Helen,  who  had  just  returned  from  a  foreign 
tour,  on  which  she  had  been  despatched  ostensibly 
to  improve  her  mind,  really  to  purge  her  heart,  in- 
sisted upon  accompanying  her  father  once  more  over 
the  line,  and  the  general  in  a  weak  moment  allowed 
it.  The  valley  division  struck  off  at  right  angles  to 
the  main  line  at  the  beginning  of  the  mountain  di- 
vision. Woodward  got  off  the  "  plug  passenger  "  to 
which  he  was  assigned,  one  evening,  and  his  heart 
almost  ceased  its  beating  as  his  glance  fell  upon  the 
general's  private  car.  Not  that  the  private  car  itself 
was  a  thing  to  excite  a  lover,  but  the  shades  of  the 
windows  were  not  yet  drawn  and  in  the  brilliantly 
lighted  little  drawing-room  he  saw  Helen  Blount. 
The  division  superintendent  came  out  of  the  de- 
spatcher's  office  at  the  same  moment  and  caught 
sight  of  Woodward.  Coming  rapidly  toward  him, 
he  remarked :  "  You're  just  the  man  I  want.  Are 
you  too  tired  to  take  out  No.  5  ? " 

"  Too  tired !  "  The  young  man's  heart  leaped  in 
his  bosom  at  the  chance.  He  had  just  come  in  from 
his  run  and  ordinarily  would  have  refused,  but  here 
was  an  opportunity  he  had  never  hoped  for.  "  Cer- 
tainly not!"  he  exclaimed;  "I  will  take  her  out 
gladly.  What's  the  matter?  " 

"  Sylvester's  ill  and  I  have  no  one  to  send  but  you. 
Go  in  and  get  your  orders.  She's  been  here  twenty- 
five  minuteis  already  " — he  hauled  out  his  watch — 
"  she's  due  to  leave  now." 

Woodward  turned  and  ran  into  the  despatched 


146  The  Records 


office.  The  division  superintendent  walked  down  the 
track  toward  the  general  manager's  car.  The  gen- 
eral met  him  at  the  door. 

"  Who's  taking  the  train  out  ? "  he  asked. 

He  knew  that  Sylvester,  the  regular  conductor,  had 
been  taken  suddenly  ill  and  that  they  were  rather 
short  of  trainmen  at  the  division  from  various  causes. 

"  Woodward,"  answered  the  division  superin- 
tendent, innocently;  "  he  has  just  come  in  off  his  own 
run  and  gladly  acceded  to  my  request  that  he  take 
you  over  the  mountain  division.  He  used  to  run  on 
the  division,  you  know." 

Neither  the  division  superintendent  nor  any  one 
except  the  parties  immediately  concerned  knew  why 
Woodward  had  been  transferred. 

"  Umph !  "  said  the  general,  "  yes,  I  know.  On 
second  thoughts,  Smithson,  I  think  you  can  detach 
my  car  and  let  No.  7  take  it  over.  There's  less  than 
an  hour's  difference  between  the  two  trains  anyway, 
and  it  will  give  me  a  little  more  time  here." 

It  happened  that  No.  7,  the  other  Trans-Conti- 
nental west-bound  train,  followed  No.  5  across  the 
continent  at  an  interval  of  about  half  an  hour.  The 
arrival  of  the  west-bound  passengers  at  the  eastern 
terminus  rendered  it  necessary  to  run  these  two 
trains  in  that  way  instead  of  having  one  a  morning 
and  the  other  an  evening  train. 

Helen  had  been  standing  by  her  father  when 
Smithson  entered  the  car,  and  the  general  felt  the 
start  she  gave  at  the  mention  of  Woodward's  name. 
He  was  determined  that  these  two  should  not  meet. 


The  Apotheosis  of  Woodward        147 

Under  the  circumstances  there  was  nothing  else  for 
the  general  to  do,  when  he  heard  that  Woodward 
was  to  take  the  train  out,  but  to  delay  his  car  for  No. 
7.  He  could  mot  in  decency  object  to  Woodward's 
taking  the  train  over  the  division,  but  he  could  de- 
tach his  car.  He  would  have  stopped  over  a  day  at 
Diamond  Points,  the  division  terminus,  had  it  not 
been  imperative  for  him  to  reach  San  Francisco  as 
soon  as  possible.  He  did  the  next  best  thing. 

As  Woodward  came  out  of  the  despatcher's  office 
with  his  orders  he  saw  the  yard  engine  backing  up 
to  the  rear  of  his  train.  He  ran  down  there,  but 
there  was  nothing  that  he  could  do.  The  general 
nodded  and  smiled  satirically  at  him  from  the  plat- 
form. Resolutely  thrusting  herself  past  her  father's 
portly  form  until  she  could  see  the  rear  end  of  the 
train  from  which  the  car  had  been  drawn,  Helen 
also  nodded  and  smiled — not  satirically — at  him. 
After  a  year's  separation,  even  a  nod  and  a  smile 
counted  for  much.  Greatly  disappointed  at  the  cut- 
ting off  of  the  car,  but  cheered  nevertheless  by  the 
glimpse  he  had  caught  of  the  woman  he  loved,  Wood- 
ward gave  the  signal  for  ~No.  5  to  pull  out. 

The  train  was  a  double-header.  Going  west,  there 
were  some  very  heavy  grades  to  be  overcome,  to 
which  even  the  big  oil-burning  compounds  of  the 
division,  the  finest  passenger  engines  in  the  world, 
were  unequal.  The  train  was  a  heavy  one,  but  most 
of  its  occupants  were  through  passengers,  there  be- 
ing little  local  traffic  on  the  division,  and  having  once 
gone  through  the  long  line  of  cars,  there  was  little 


148  The  Records 


to  distract  the  mind  of  the  conductor  from  the  run- 
ning of  his  train. 

In  that  and  in  the  knowledge  that  Helen  Blount 
was  coming  along  rapidly  behind  him  on  ~No.  7  he 
found  ample  food  for  reflection.  The  first  hundred 
miles  of  the  journey  passed  without  mishap.  At 
Himalaya,  a  little  water  station  on  the  top  of  the 
mountain,  he  got  orders  to  run  to  Delhi  siding  and 
there  side-track  for  No.  2,  the  east-bound  Limited. 
Delhi  siding  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  mountain, 
about  twenty-five  miles  away.  A  hot  box  had  made 
him  ten  minutes  late,  but  still  he  had  sixty-two  min- 
utes to  make  the  siding.  It  would  take  all  of  that 
on  account  of  the  grades. 

Sometimes  when  work  was  light  or  when  the 
emergency  was  critical,  Woodward  rode  on  the  en- 
gine. The  track  from  Himalaya  to  Delhi  was  the 
crookedest,  the  most  difficult  and  dangerous  stretch 
on  the  system.  As  he  handed  the  engineer  his  or- 
ders he  swung  himself  into  the  cab  of  the  forward 
locomotive.  The  fireman  offered  to  give  him  his 
seat,  but  Woodward  motioned  him  to  stay  where  he 
was,  it  being  a  rather  nice  job  so  to  manipulate  the 
oil  valves  as  to  keep  the  fire  going  in  the  proper  way. 
Both  engines  were  oil-burners  of  the  most  improved 
type.  Woodward  stood  in  the  narrow  space  between 
the  tender  and  the  engine  peering  out  ahead  from 
time  to  time  into  the  pitch  darkness  illuminated  for 
a  long  distance  by  the  splendid  electric  headlight — 
a  miniature  searchlight,  in  fact. 

The  run  was  made  without  incident  of  any  sort, 


The  Apotheosis  of  Woodward        149 

save  that  they  rather  lost  time  on  account  of  an 
unusually  heavy  train.  They  crossed  the  divide 
about  twelve  miles  from  the  siding  at  Delhi  and  in 
order  to  get  there  in  time  the  engineers  opened  up 
and  the  train  raced  down  the  mountain,  taking  the 
curves  at  a  prodigious  speed.  The  head  engineer  and 
fireman  and  Woodward  intently  watched  the  track 
before  the  train.  Coming  around  the  curve  which 
hid  the  track  ahead  of  them  Woodward,  who  was 
leaning  far  out,  thought  he  detected  a  faint  graynesa 
over  the  top  of  the  mountain  on  a  shoulder  of  which 
the  road  ran.  He  swung  back  into  the  cab,  touched 
the  engineer  and  pointed.  The  man  nodded,  in- 
stantly shut  off  the  steam  and  shoved  up  the  re- 
versing lever.  He  had  not  completed  these  move- 
ments, rapid  as  they  were,  before  a  bright  blaze  of 
light  shot  into  view  upon  the  track  a  few  feet 
directly  in  front  of  them. 

It  was  No.  2,  the  Limited  they  had  been  ordered  to 
pass  at  Delhi  siding  five  miles  away!  There  was 
some  frightful  mistake  for  she  was  turning  the  curve 
and  coming  down  upon  them  at  a  speed  which  almost 
matched  their  own.  Woodward  had  stepped  back 
between  the  cab  and  the  tender.  He  dropped  down 
instantly  to  the  step  and  held  on  for  a  second  while 
the  engineer  put  on  the  air.  Woodward  knew  the 
place  like  a  book.  The  road  bed  was  cut  out  of  the 
mountain  close  to  its  base.  For  ten  feet  the  slope 
to  the  level  ground  was  covered  with  broken  rock. 
To  stay  on  the  engine  was  death.  To  jump  on  the 
broken  rock  was  death  also.  Woodward  had  about 


150  The  Records 


a  second  to  decide  what  he  must  do.  One  glance 
he  shot  at  the  roaring  monster  hurling  itself  upon 
them  in  a  blaze  of  electric  light.  Then  he  jumped. 

The  woman  who  hesitates  is  said  to  be  lost  but 
why  the  problem  should  be  confined  to  the  feminine 
gender  is  not  obvious.  Either  possibility  of  the  situ- 
ation was  enough  for  an  ordinary  man,  but  that 
moment  of  hesitation  subjected  Woodward  to  the 
perils  of  both  of  them,  for  he  not  only  fell  on  the 
rocks  but  as  he  struck  he  was  in  the  midst  of  the 
collision  as  well. 

The  terrific  force  of  the  impact  demolished  the 
engine  of  the  Limited  and  the  first  engine  of  No.  5. 
The  tender  of  the  other  engine  which  was  also 
smashed  into  an  unrecognizable  mass  of  old  iron 
was  hurled  upon  him  where  he  lay  at  the  foot  of  the 
declivity.  The  Limited  contained  nothing  but  Pull- 
man cars,  consequently  No.  5  got  the-  worst  of  the 
collision. 

The  baggage,  mail,  smoking  car  and  two  coaches 
were  shivered  into  splinters.  Even  the  first  two  or 
three  of  the  Pullmans  on  the  rear  end  were  badly 
damaged.  Woodward  was  not  conscious  of  this  or 
of  any  of  the  heartrending  scenes  which  followed, 
for  the  oil  from  the  shattered  locomotives  speedily 
ignited  the  wreckage  and  the  helpless  passengers 
pinned  under  the  wreck  were  involved  in  a  terrible 
conflagration. 

As  the  conductor  leaped  he  heard  the  roar  of  the 
collision  and  the  broken  tender  of  the  second  engine 
fell  over  upon  him.  The  blaze  of  light  which  had 


The  Apotheosis  of  Woodward        151 

been  about  him  as  he  jumped  was  succeeded  by  in- 
tense darkness  and  he  knew  nothing  more.  How 
long  it  continued  he  could  not  tell.  Indeed,  he  did 
not  speculate  upon  it,  for  his  first  thought,  when  con- 
sciousness returned,  was  his  duty.  Strange  to  say, 
he  felt  no  especial  pain.  He  found  by  cautious  ex- 
periment that  he  could  move  one  leg  and  one  arm. 
The  others  appeared  to  be  held  down  by  something, 
what  it  was  he  could  not  at  first  divine.  He  felt 
about  vaguely  in  the  darkness  with  both  free  mem- 
bers, and  discovered  at  last  that  he  was  lying  not 
upon  the  rocks  but  upon  something  soft  and  sticky. 
He  reasoned  slowly  but  with  increasing  clearness.  He 
had  evidently  jumped  clear  of  the  embankment,  and 
something — he  recognized  what  it  was  presently — 
had  fallen  upon  him.  Light  came  to  him  as  his  mind 
cleared,  from  the  blazing  cars  upon  the  track  above 
him.  Not  enough  to  enable  him  to  see,  however, 
but  enough  to  permit  him  to  realize. 

He  was  the  conductor  of  that  train.  It  was  his 
train  and  he  ought  to  be  there;  then  flashed  into 
his  mind  the  fact  that  JSTo.  7  was  following  close  on 
his  heels — was  only  thirty  minutes  behind  him!  The 
wreck  had  occurred  just  at  the  apex  of  the  curve. 
It  could  not  be  seen  from  the  other  side  by  the  ap- 
proaching train,  unless  the  light  from  the  blazing 
cars  might  give  warning,  which  from  the  topography 
was  so  unlikely  as  to  be  almost  unthinkable.  It  was 
too  faint  a  possibility  to  be  depended  upon.  He  won- 
dered if  the  rear  brakeman  had  been  hurt,  and,  if  not 
if  he  had  done  his  duty  in  flagging  that  train.  While 


152  The  Records 


these  thoughts  passed  through  his  mind  he  was  mak- 
ing efforts  to  free  himself.  The  softness  of  the 
ground  about  him  he  discovered  to  be  due  to  water 
from  the  broken  tank,  which  had  flooded  the  spot 
where  he  lay.  Groping  about  he  found  a  passage  to 
freedom,  and  by  a  superhuman  effort  he  at  last 
hauled  himself  clear  of  the  weights  pinning  him 
down,  and  dragged  himself  from  under  the  remains 
of  the  tender. 

He  realized  then  that  he  was  frightfully  burned 
from  his  waist  down.  His  clothing  was  in  rags. 
His  face  had  been  swept  by  fire  but  his  arm  providen- 
tially had  fallen  across  his  mouth,  and  he  had  not 
inhaled  the  flame.  Indeed,  he  would  have  been 
burned  to  death  had  not  the  rush  of  water  dashed 
the  oil — fortunately  the  oil  tank  had  been  almost 
empty — and  fire  away  from  him.  As  he  writhed 
along  the  ground  toward  the  blazing  wreck,  he  real- 
ized that  Helen  Blount  was  in  ISTo.  7 ! 

How  he  did  it  neither  he  nor  any  one  else  ever 
knew.  He  crawled  up  the  bank,  finding  as  he  did 
so  that  one  of  his  arms  was  broken,  staggered  to  his 
feet,  and  started  down  the  track  in  the  direction 
whence  his  train  had  come.  Under  other  circum- 
stances he  could  not  have  walked  a  step — but  for  her 
he  could  do  the  impossible. 

As  he  passed  the  rear  Pullman  he  took  one  of  the 
lanterns  from  it  in  default  of  any  other  signal.  He 
rounded  the  curve  and  staggered  on  to  the  entrance 
of  the  canon  through  which  the  track  swept  a  few 
rods  before  the  curve  was  reached.  There  was  no 


He  had  just  strength  enough 
to  lift  the  lantern. — Page  153 


The  Apotheosis  of  Woodward        153 

sign  of  the  brakeman.  For  some  reason  he  had 
failed  to  go  back  and  warn  the  train.  Woodward 
must  go  on. 

He  was  in  great  pain  now,  suffering  horribly.  His 
chest  felt  as  if  he  had  been  beaten  to  a  pulp  with 
a  hammer.  His  broken  arm  dangled  uselessly  by  his 
side.  Blood  trickled  into  his  mouth  from  where  he 
could  not  tell  and  nearly  choked  him.  The  pain 
in  his  legs  and  body  caused  by  his  burns  was  some- 
thing frightful.  Will  alone  kept  him  up.  Love 
alone  gave  him  strength.  To  stop  would  be  to  die. 
He  kept  resolutely  on.  It  seemed  to  him  that  it  took 
him  hours  to  take  a  step.  Really  he  ran  frantically 
up  the  track.  It  was  well  that  he  did  so.  He  had 
lain  insensible  for  nearly  half  an  hour.  There  was 
no  time  to  be  lost.  Just  as  he  plunged  into  the 
mouth  of  the  caiion  he  heard  the  roar  of  ~No.  7's 
locomotives.  Thank  God,  he  was  in  time!  He  had 
just  strength  enough  to  lift  the  lantern,  wave  it  sev- 
eral times  and  then  fall  back  to  the  track. 

The  engineers  of  No.  7  acted  promptly.  They 
brought  their  great  train  to  a  sudden  standstill,  with 
the  pilot  of  the  leader  just  touching  the  prostrate  fig- 
ure of  Woodward.  It  was  about  ten  o'clock  at  night. 
Most  of  the  passengers  were  asleep.  But  General 
Blount  and  his  daughter  happened  to  be  awake.  The 
general,  as  he  felt  the  air  put  on,  realized  that  some- 
thing was  wrong.  Bidding  Helen  wait  for  him,  he  ran 
to  the  door  of  the  car,  scrambled  down  to  the  track, 
and  hastened  toward  the  head  of  the  train.  Helen  did 
not  wait.  She  followed  her  father  and  joined  the 


154  The  Records 


little  group  of  engineers,  firemen  and  trainmen  just 
in  front  of  the  engine  ahead. 

"  What's  the  matter?  "  panted  the  general,  coming 
up  out  of  the  darkness  into  the  bright  illumination 
of  the  electric  headlight. 

"  The  train's  been  flagged,  sir,"  said  Digby,  the 
conductor,  "  something  has  happened  evidently." 

"Who  is  this?"  exclaimed  General  Blount,  step- 
ping toward  a  group,  which  gave  way  to  him. 

"  It's  one  of  the  negro  porters,  I  think.  He's 

badly  hurt,  and  "  answered  an  engineer,  who 

was  kneeling  by  the  side  of  the  stricken  man,  and 
just  then  Helen  appeared  on  the  scene. 

"  What  is  it,  father?  Has  there  been — oh,  what 
is  that?" 

She  looked  down  on  the  senseless  figure  of  a  man, 
his  clothing  torn  to  shreds,  his  body  frightfully 
burned,  his  face  black  with  mud  and  soot ;  a  horrible 
picture,  indeed.  But  'tis  hard  to  deceive  a  woman's 
eye,  especially  when  the  vision  is  sharpened  by  af- 
fection. 

"  It's  Mr.  Woodward!"  exclaimed  the  girl.  "  My 
God!  Is  he  dead?" 

"  No,  ma'am,  not  yet,"  said  the  engineer,  giving 
way  to  her  as  she  dropped  to  the  ground  and  took  the 
man's  head  in  her  arms.  She  did  not  lose  her  pres- 
ence of  mind  yet — there  would  be  time  for  that  later. 

"  Water,  some  one,"  she  cried,  "  and  whiskey!" 

Both  were  forthcoming,  the  water  from  the  ten- 
der, the  whiskey  £rom  the  general's  pocket-flask. 

Between  the  two,  assisted  it  may  be  by  some  con- 


The  Apotheosis  of  Woodward        155 

sciousness  of  the  overwhelming  affection  of  the 
woman,  whose  every  restraint  gave  way  at  the  side 
of  her  lover  dying,  perhaps  dead,  in  her  arms,  Wood- 
ward opened  his  eyes. 

"  No.  2  and  5  are  in  the — ditch — on  the — curve,'7 
he  whispered,  not  recognizing  anybody  in  the  blaze 
of  light.  "  My  orders,"  he  continued,  endeavoring  to 
raise  his  hand.  He  would  fain  justify  himself  be- 
fore he  died,  he  felt. 

With  quick  intuition  the  trainmen  realized  what 
he  meant  by  those  words.  The  conductor  knelt  down, 
thrust  his  hand  into  Woodward's  coat,  and  pulled 
out  his  last  train  order. 

"  Read,"  said  the  prostrate  man. 

"  No.  5  will  take  siding  at  Delhi  siding  until  No. 
2  passes,"  read  Digby. 

"  I  obeyed  orders,"  said  Woodward,  in  weak  tri- 
umph. "  They  need  help — yonder,"  he  gasped  out 
and  then  fainted  away. 

By  this  time  the  right  of  way  was  swarming  with 
excited  passengers. 

"  There  has  been  a  wreck;  they  need  help,"  said 
the  general  promptly.  "  Everybody  go  forward." 

He  himself  set  the  example  by  leading  the  way. 
This  time  Helen  did  not  follow.  She  had  more 
pressing  business  close  at  hand.  Assisted  by  the  two 
firemen,  an  improvised  stretcher  was  rigged,  and 
presently  Woodward  awoke  to  consciousness  in 
Helen's  own  dainty  bed  in  the  private  car.  There 
happened  to  be  two  physicians,  passengers  on  the 
train,  and  one  of  them  Helen  had  detained  to  assist 


156  The  Records 


Woodward.  But  that  young  man  would  not  hear  of 
any  attention  being  paid  to  him. 

"  There  are  people  yonder,"  he  gasped,  "  burning 
to  death.  Go  to  them,  for  God's  sake!  You  can 
do  nothing  for  me." 

There  was  really  nothing  much  more  that  any  one 
could  do  for  him  then,  and  the  physician,  appreciat- 
ing the  situation,  after  bandaging  him  hurriedly,  left 
him  to  Helen.  She  did  all  she  could.  She  loosened 
his  clothing,  removed  his  shoes,  bathed  his  face  and 
administered  the  stimulants  that  the  doctor  had  left 
with  her.  She  knew  now  beyond  all  doubting  that  she 
loved  him.  She  had  known  it  all  the  time,  but  had  ad- 
mitted it  almost  against  her  will.  Now  everything 
was  swept  away  in  the  knowledge  that  perhaps  it 
was  too  late.  She  hung  over  him  with  all  her  heart 
and  soul  in  her  glance.  She  would  have  given  life 
itself  for  his  then,  yet  there  was  nothing  she  could 
do.  That  sense  of  impotent  helplessness  which  adds 
the  last  poignancy  to  anguish  when  we  contemplate 
the  sufferings  of  those  we  love,  was  hers.  The  ner- 
vous shock  which  had  afforded  a  certain  amount  of 
relief  to  Woodward  was  gone,  and  he  lay  in  agony 
inexpressible.  But  because  he  was  a  man  and  a 
gentleman  and  a  lover,  he  strove  as  best  he  could  to 
control  himself  for  her  sake  more  than  his  own. 

"  Oh,"  she  said  at  last,  "  if  I  could  only  do  some- 
thing to  help  you!" 

"  You  can,"  he  whispered,  heroically.  "  Smile 
at  me,  Helen — when  you  see  me  suffering  the  hard- 
est— and  I'll  smile  back — as  long  as  I  can." 


TJie  Apotheosis  of  Woodward        157 

Poor  Woodward.  When  the  general  returned 
from  the  wreck  with  the  mangled  remains  of  those 
who  yet  lived  he  found  Woodward  insensible,  and 
Helen  sitting  dry-eyed,  white-faced,  broken-hearted 
by  his  side. 

The  story  of  the  run  of  No.  7  with  its  awful  cargo 
of  sufferers  back  to  the  division  headquarters  at 
Levinson  was  one  that  was  often  told.  Many  died 
on  the  way  to  succor,  but  Woodward  had  a  tenacious 
hold  upon  lif  e;  and  the  breath  was  still  in  him  when 
they  took  him  to  the  hospital. 

The  general  was  soldier  enough  to  know  when  he 
was  beaten.  One  look  at  Helen's  face,  when  she 
said,  "  Father,  I  love  him,"  in  answer  to  his  inquir- 
ing glance,  convinced  him  that  the  game  was  up, 
and  nothing  would  prevent  the  marriage  to  which  he 
was  so  genuinely  opposed,  except  the  death  of  Wood- 
ward. 

No  one  could  have  wished  that.  The  division, 
indeed  the  whole  country,  so  soon  as  the  story  was 
told,  rang  with  his  heroism.  There  was  something 
magnificently  dramatic  in  the  running  of  that  broken, 
burned  figure,  wounded  almost  to  death,  in  the  pic- 
ture of  that  body  collapsing  on  the  track,  the  lan- 
tern still  in  his  hand  in  front  of  No.  7,  which  ap- 
pealed to  every  heart.  For  Woodward's  action  had 
undoubtedly  saved  No.  7  from  plunging  into  the 
wreck  of  the  other  two  trains,  in  which  case  there 
would  have  been  a  much  greater  catastrophe. 

And  there  were  hints  of  romance,  too.  Those  west- 
ern railroad  men  were  keen.  They  knew  a  "  hawk 


158  The  Records 


from  a  handsaw,"  and  that  Helen  Blount  loved  the 
heroic  conductor  was  plain  to  every  one  when  she  had 
gathered  him  in  her  arms  in  front  of  the  pilot  on 
that  eventful  night.  Everybody  wondered  what  the 
old  general  would  do.  The  old  general  rose  to  the 
occasion.  "Woodward  had  been  unconscious  or  deli- 
rious for  a  long  time,  but  so  soon  as  he  recovered 
sufficiently  to  understand  what  was  going  on  about 
him,  the  general  and  his  daughter  came  to  see  him. 
The  girl  insisted  on  seeing  her  lover  first  and  alone. 

Woodward's  first  question  had  been  for  the  safety 
of  No.  7  and  the  woman  he  loved.  The  nurses  had 
given  him  ample  assurance  upon  both  points.  If 
he  had  needed  any  more,  the  presence  of  Helen 
Blount  was  enough.  She  had  been  warned  and,  in- 
deed, she  realized  from  her  faithful  attendance  upon 
her  gallant  lover  while  he  had  been  unconscious  in 
the  hospital,  that  he  must  not  be  excited.  Sh.e 
wanted  to  let  him  know  her  feelings,  however,  and 
when  she  knelt  down  beside  his  cot  in  the  private 
room,  that  he  might  more  easily  see  her,  or  that 
she  might  get  nearer  to  him,  she  bent  her  lips  to 
his  thin,  scarred  hand  lying  on  the  cover. 

"  Is  that  the  best  you  can  do?"  he  whispered. 

Then  she  kissed  him  upon  the  lips. 

"  Does  that  mean " 

"  It  means  anything  you  wish — if  you  will  onlj 
live  and  get  well — for  me,"  she  said,  and  then  her 
father  entered  the  door.  He  sighed  deeply  as  Helen 
rose  to  her  feet  in  some  confusion.  But  he  was  a 
good  loser  after  all. 


The  Apotheosis  of  Woodward        159 

"  Woodward,"  he  said,  "  you  must  get  well  now. 
I  have  just  made  you  superintendent  of  the  mountain 
division,  vice  Smithson  transferred.  Will  you  take 
the  position?  " 

"  Does  the  lady  go  with  the  job? "  asked  the  sick 
man. 

The  general  looked  at  Helen  and  Helen  looked  at 
the  general. 

"  Yes,  I  go,"  said  the  girl  softly. 

"  Yes,  she  goes,"  echoed  the  general,  reluctantly, 
it  must  be  admitted. 

"  I  accept,"  said  Woodward,  smiling  up  at  the 
pair. 


Eighth  Record 

THE   REPARATION* 

! 

Miss  Abigail  and  Miss  Philippa  were  the  last  of 
the  Herondines.  To  be  a  Herondine  in  Virginia 
meant  much,  to  be  the  last  of  the  family  meant 
more.  Miss  Abby  was  fully  conscious  of  her  posi- 
tion, Miss  Philippa  cared  little  about  it.  Miss  Abby's 
ambition  was  to  live  up  to  what  she  fondly  believed 
were  the  traditions  of  her  forebears.  Miss  Philippa's 
desire  was  to  get  the  most  she  could  out  of  the 
present  moment  with  no  backward  thoughts  for  the 
past  and  with  little  concern  for  the  future.  Miss 
Abby  was  all  dignity,  poise  and  pride.  Miss  Philippa 
was  laughter,  gaiety  itself. 

Two  beings  could  not  be  more  dissimilar,  yet  they 
were  as  intimately  bound  together  as  sunshine  and 
shadow.  Unconsciously  Miss  Philippa  summed  up 
her  ancestry  better  than  Miss  Abby,  despite  her 
efforts,  for  the  Herondines  had  been  chief  among 
the  fox-hunting,  pleasure-loving,  easy-going  squires 
of  the  Old  Dominion.  To  be  appropriate  the  family 
arms  should  have  sported  the  mask  of  comedy  and 
the  family  motto  should  have  been  a  jest. 

The  first  American  Herondine  had  been  a  cavalier. 
After  the  restoration  of  King  Charles  he  had  come 

*By  courtesy  of  "The  Associated  Sunday  Magazines  " 


162  The  Records 


to  Virginia,  having  previously  taken  to  wife  a  daugh- 
ter of  one  of  the  sternest  and  most  rigorous  of  the 
followers  of  the  Great  Protector.  The  lover,  like 
love,  will  go  where  he  is  sent;  and  dashing  George 
Herondine,  to  the  great  astonishment  of  all  who 
knew  him,  had  been  sent,  in  some  mysterious  way, 
straight  into  the  arms  of  Mistress  Abigail  Prynford 
— a  rollicking  blade  in  a  Puritan  heart! 

The  first  lady  of  Heronshaw  Hall  had  a  difficult 
task  to  preserve  her  dignity  and  adhere  to  her  prin- 
ciples in  the  society  of  the  bluff,  roystering,  gallant 
Herondine  she  had  married.  That  she  had  done  so 
attested  the  strength  of  her  character  and  her  devo- 
tion to  her  creed.  She  controlled  herself,  but  there 
she  stopped  perforce.  Nature  is  freakish.  The 
little  Herondines  that  came  in  regular  succession  to 
the  strangely  mated  couple  at  Heronshaw  partook 
of.  the  character  of  the  weaker  vessel  rather  than 
of  the  stronger.  They  were  all  Herondines  from  the 
bone  out. 

Two  hundred  years'  incumbency  by  such  a  family 
would  waste  a  principality.  When  George  Heron- 
dine,  the  seventh,  died  in  the  fifties,  the  last  male 
of  his  race,  his  patrimony  was  gone.  He  left  to 
his  two  daughters,  sole  issue  of  his  marriage,  little 
but  the  family  home,  the  ground  on  which  it  stood, 
a  few  black  servants,  and  the  recollection  of  the 
past  glories  of  his  house  to  live  up  to. 

In  all  the  long  line  of  descendants  of  the  first 
George  and  his  Puritan  wife  there  was  but  one  who 
in  any  way  partook  of  the  characteristics  of  the  pro- 


The  Reparation  163 

genitress  of  the  family.  ISTo  one  who  knew  the  two 
young  women,  thus  left  to  'themselves  untimeily, 
could  understand  Miss  Abigail  Herondine.  The 
memory  of  the  Puritan  had  been  naturally  loat  save 
for  antiquarians  who  delighted  to  delve  in  family 
histories,  and  Miss  Abigail,  therefore,  remained  a 
family  mystery,  a  social  enigma,  an  atavistic  an- 
achronism in  her  present.  She  had  even  connected 
herself  with  the  Presbyterians — the  first  Herondine 
out  of  "  The  Church  "  in  two  hundred  years ! 

Not  only  was  there  a  disparity  in  temperament  be- 
tween the  two  women,  but  there  was  a  great  differ- 
ence in  age  as  well.  Miss  Abby  was  fifteen  when 
Miss  Philippa  was  born.  At  the  time  of  this 
story  Miss  Philippa  was  twenty  and  Miss  Abby 
thirty-five.  Miss  Abby  was  tall,  largely  built,  and, 
had  there  been  any  gentleman  ungallant  enough  in 
the  Old  Dominion  so  to  characterize  a  lady,  she 
might  have  been  described  truthfully  enough,  as 
gaunt,  not  to  say  rawboned.  For  the  rest,  few  could 
mistake  her  character,  none  her  breeding. 

Miss  Philippa — well,  Miss  Philippa  was  delicious. 
Miss  Abby's  dark  hair  was  as  straight  as  an  Indian's. 
Miss  Philippa's  golden  locks  curled  as  naturally 
as  a  tendril  does.  Miss  Abby  was  grim,  severe,  un- 
approachable as  well  as  unexceptionable.  The  few 
servants  left  at  Heronshaw  stood  in  deadly  awe  of 
her.  Miss  Philippa  they  adored.  Her  old  mammy 
fairly  worshipped  her.  It  was  not  known  whether 
Miss  Abby  had  an  old  mammy  or  not.  But  Miss 
Abby  was  yet  a  very  woman,  and  she  loved  Miss 


164  The  Records 


Philippa  with  a  passionate  devotion,  the  greater  be- 
cause her  mental  habit  was  one  of  repression,  which 
did  not  allow  her  to  manifest  that  love  as  a  more 
sympathetic  and  open  nature  mi^it  have  done. 

Miss  Philippa's  frivolity  was  a  constant  source  of 
grief  to  her  older  sister;  and  Miss  Abby's  rigid  ideas 
of  duty — a  much  greater  word  in  her  vocabulary 
than  love! — compelled  her  to  make  this  disapproval 
known;  information  that  Philippa  met  with  kisses 
and  entwining  clasps  and  merry  laughs.  There  was 
room  for  but  two  passions  in  the  older  woman's 
breast — love  for  Philippa  and  for  the  doing  of  duty 
all  the  time.  At  least  so  Miss  Abigail  thought  until 
the  advent  of  David  Graham. 

David  was  twenty-five  years  old.  He  told  Miss 
Abby  that  he  was  thirty-one.  He  was  the  son  of  a 
distant  connection  of  the  family,  with  excellent  man- 
ners, a  handsome  person,  and  a  manly  bearing,  set  off 
by  education,  expensive  and  adequate.  His  morals — 
well,  his  statement  to  Miss  Abby  about  his  age  is  an 
indication  as  to  what  they  were.  Kot  that  he  was 
vicious  or  depraved.  Quite  the  contrary.  With  a  capa- 
city for  sudden  splendid  action  on  rare  occasions,  he 
was  yet  hopelessly  weak.  "When  to  his  weakness  was 
added  a  faculty  for  engaging  the  affections  of 
women,  which  often  goes  with  such  a  character,  no 
more  dangerous  person  could  have  been  introduced 
into  the  placid  Eden  in  which  Miss  Philippa  dwelt 
with  her  sister  of  the  flaming  sword  of  conscience, 
vainly  angeling  at  the  outer  gate. 

Men  as  well  as  women  were  susceptible  to  the 


The  Reparation  165 

charm  of  David  Graham's  plausible  personality.  For 
instance,  the  young  man  secured  money  easily — best 
test  of  his  attractiveness — and  spent  it  more  easily. 
He  had  gone  through  his  own  patrimony.  He  had 
borrowed  from  all  his  friends.  Wherever  he  so- 
journed he  left  a  lot  of  debts  besides  a  breaking  heart 
or  two.  He  had  fled  from  creditors  many,  and 
women  not  a  few,  to  hide  himself  for  a  time  among 
the  mountains  of  the  sequestered  valley  in  which 
Heronshaw  stood  loftily  dominant — in  memory  at 
least — of  the  surrounding  country.  He  had  vaguely 
recalled  his  feminine  connections  when  he  pitched 
upon  that  place  of  rustication,  and  when  he  reached 
the  Hall  the  situation  appealed  to  him  directly. 

For  him  to  see  a  woman  was  to  make  love  to  her. 
He  had  a  passion  for  the  sex.  Here  were  two  rep- 
resentatives. He  made  love  to  Miss  Abby  openly, 
to  Miss  Philippa  quietly,  deftly  keeping  each  in 
ignorance  of  the  other.  He  would  amuse  himself 
with  both.  It  flattered  his  pride  to  be  able  to  do 
this.  By  and  by  he  fell  really  in  love  with  Miss 
Philippa,  so  far  as  it  was  in  him  to  love  any  one. 
But  he  did  not  neglect  Miss  Abby  on  that  account. 

The  passion  for  duty  and  the  passion  for  Miss 
Philippa  had  to  make  a  place  in  Miss  Abby's  flinty 
breast  for  a  passion  for  David,  again  a  feeling  not 
the  less  intense  because  she  gave  little  outward  evi- 
dence of  it.  And  to  do  him  justice  Graham  hardly 
realized  to  what  degree  his  trifling  had  warmed  that 
glacial  heart.  He  had  so  lightly  given  her  so  little 
from  his  point  of  view,  that  he  did  not  dream  how 


166  The  Records 


much  it  meant  to  her,  whose  habit  and  whose  misfor- 
tune it  was  to  give  little  outward  expression  yet  to 
feel  deeply.  He  thought  too  much  about  Miss 
Philippa  to  think  greatly  about  Miss  Abby.  It  was 
David's  misfortune  ever  to  imagine  himself  hope- 
lessly in  love  with  the  present  object  of  his  vagroin 
attention.  He  lived  in  successive  states  of  ecstatic 
emotion.  He  was  ready  to  go  to  the  last  limit  in 
any  of  his  ephemeral  passions,  while  they  lasted. 

One  morning  Miss  Abby,  leaving  her  room  for  the 
day's  duties,  was  handed  a  note  by  old  black  Asa,  the 
major-domo  of  the  diminished  household.  The  an- 
cient butler  stated  to  his  mistress  that  he  had  been 
ordered  by  Miss  Philippa  to  give  it  to  her  when  she 
awakened.  Such  an  occurrence  was  unusual.  Miss 
Abby  questioned  the  butler  further. 

"  When  did  Miss  Philippa  give  it  to  you,  Asa? " 

"  Late  las'  night,  Miss  Abby,  af  tuh  you  was  in 
baid,  ma'am." 

With  deep  foreboding,  Miss  Abby  turned  away 
from  the  old  man,  went  into  the  library  and  opened 
her  letter.  Philippa  and  David  Graham  had  run 
away!  They  were  going  to  Richmond  where  they 
would  be  married,  then  to  New  York,  and  so  for 
a  time  out  of  Miss  Abby's  life.  "  David,"  wrote 
Philippa,  "  begs  your  forgiveness.  He  knew  that 
you  would  never  consent  to  my  marrying  him,  and 
he  pretended  to  make  love  to  you  in  order  that  you 
might  not  notice  us.  He  knows,  of  course,  that  you 
saw  through  his  trifling  and  that  you  did  not  care." 

"Thank  God!"  was  Miss  Abby's  first  thought, 


The  Reparation  167 

"  that  I  never  betrayed  what  I  felt  for  him.  That 
he  does  not  know " 

Miss  Abby  did  not  phrase  it  further,  but  she  might 
have  completed  the  sentence  thus:  That  he  did  not 
know  her  heart  was  broken,  her  soul  crushed,  more 
by  the  fact  that  he  had  used  her  to  cover  another 
love  affair,  by  the  consciousness  that  her  love  had 
been  given  him  honestly  in  answer  to  his  play,  than 
by  the  defection  of  Philippa. 

There  was  nothing  that  Miss  Abby  could  do  ex- 
cept suffer  in  silence.  There  was  no  comfort  to  be 
found  for  a  wound  like  this,  but  she  had  the  courage 
to  make  no  moan  nor  outbreak.  She  wove  again 
the  threads  of  her  daily  life,  but  this  time  alone. 
There  was  naught  but  shadow  at  Heronshaw,  sun- 
shine was  gone  from  it  and  for  Miss  Abby  as  well. 

Nor  did  sunshine  return  when  Miss  Philippa  came 
back.  She  had  gone  away  in  the  springtime;  it  had 
come  again,  a  second  summer  had  passed,  and  it  was 
winter  once  more.  One  night  it  stormed.  Miss 
Abby  sat  alone  in  the  library,  her  Bible  in  her  lap, 
open  but  neglected,  typical  of  Miss  Abby's  condition. 
She  was  dreaming  as  even  the  sternest — thank  God! 
— may  sometimes  dream.  Into  her  iron  soul  was 
borne  the  consciousness  of  a  footstep  upon  the  gal- 
lery outside.  She  listened.  A  hand  fumbled  at  the 
slats  of  the  shutters  that  covered  the  long  French 
windows.  Miss  Abby  rose  and  lifted  the  lamp.  The 
light  showed  her  a  woman's  face,  ghastly  white  be- 
hind the  leveled  slats,  as  of  a  prisoner  without  hope 
staring  through  bars. 


168  The  Records 


Another  woman  might  have  screamed  and  dropped 
the  lamp,  for  it  was  death  apparently  that  confronted 
her.  Miss  Abbj  put  the  lamp  quietly  down  upon  the 
table,  stepped  to  the  window,  opened  it,  pushed  back 
the  shutters  and  picked  up  the  form  that  lay  huddled 
on  the  porch  and  carried  it  into  the  house 

That  night  Philippa's  baby  was  born.  That  night 
the  little  soul  went  out  on  the  storm  that  had  brought 
its  mother  there.  And  the  mind  of  Philippa  went 
out  in  the  darkness  with  the  soul  of  her  child.  When 
the  long  illness  was  over,  Philippa  was  as  a  child 
herself.  The  past  was  wiped  out  of  her  recollection. 
There  had  been  a  clean — was  it  merciful? — erasure. 
There  was  nothing  in  the  present.  She  babbled  and 
smiled  and  spoke  an  infinite  deal  of  nothing  with  not 
even  the  two-grain  reasons  of  Gratiano  in  her  chaff. 
Outwardly  she  grew  prettier  than  ever,  mentally 
she  was  nothing. 

There  were  two  shadows  in  the  house  instead  of 
one  thereafter.  But  one  comfort  had  Miss  Abby, 
and  that  was  in  the  paper  that  she  found  next  to 
Miss  Philippa's  heart — a  marriage  certificate.  Thank 
God,  he  had  been  man  enough  for  that.  Miss  Abby 
knew  the  whole  story.  After  the  baby  was  born, 
untimely,  on  that  bitter  night  she  had  pierced  it  out 
from  Miss  Philippa's  ravings  in  the  delirium  of  the 
supervening  fever;  a  story  as  old  as  the  hills,  as 
oft  repeated  as  wave  succeeds  to  wave  on  the  sea  of 
circumstance,  but  coming  as  an  unique  experience, 
with  a  new  bitterness,  in  every  instance.  Infatuation, 


The  Reparation  169 

possession,  satiety,  indifference,  hatred,  desertion! 
And  a  woman's  expiation. 

There  were  whispers  which  grew  and  grew  until 
they  were  cried  upon  the  housetops;  there  were 
inquiries  covert  and  open;  there  were  suspicions 
which  assumed  the  force  of  certainty  among  the 
people  round  about,  but  no  one  questioned  Miss 
Abby.  She  devoted  herself  to  the  care  of  Miss 
Philippa  as  if  the  woman  who  had  been  wife  and 
mother  were  indeed  a  child.  Vainly  she  sought  to  de- 
velop again  the  lingering  remains  of  Miss  Philippa's 
intellect.  Over  and  over  with  a  patience  that  was 
painful  to  think  on  she  taught  Miss  Philippa  her 
letters,  for  instance.  No  more  sternness,  no  more  re- 
provings,  no  more  warnings,  came  from  Miss  Abby. 
A  keen  observer  might  have  said  that  after  a  time 
the  house  again  cointained  sunshine  and  shadow, 
this  time  Miss  Abby  was  the  sunshine — a  fierce  blaze 
kindled  by  anger,  fed  by  desire,  yet  ever  gentle  to 
Miss  Philippa,  quite  unconscious  of  it  all. 

Miss  Abby  still  lived  for  two  things,  for  Miss  Phi- 
lippa, as  she  had  always  lived  for  her,  and  for  re- 
venge upon  David  Graham.  Miss  Philippa  gave  her 
little  mental  occupation ;  she  was  not  so  great  a  stim- 
ulus to  her  mind  as  an  intelligent  dog  might  have 
been,  so  that  Miss  Abby  practically  lived  alone,  with  a 
desire  for  some  requital  upon  the  man  who  had 
ruined  the  lives  of  the  two  women. 

In  her  way — and  it  was  a  more  dangerous  way — 
Miss  Abby  was  as  mad  as  Miss  Philippa.  She  pon- 
dered over  the  pages  of  the  Old  Testament  just  as 


170  The  Records 


the  ironside  cavalry  had  been  wont  to  do  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  years  before.  Every  denunciatory 
clause  found  an  echo  in  her  heart.  An  eye  for  an 
eye,  a  tooth  for  a  tooth,  evil  for  evil,  blow  for  blow — 
so  her  gospel  was  written.  She  prayed  day  after  day 
for  its  consummation.  A  desire  to  compass  it  was 
her  obsession.  The  more  powerful,  the  more  in- 
tense, the  more  tremendous,  was  this  feeling  because 
she  gave  no  outward  sign  of  it.  She  only  waited. 
She  stayed  quietly  at  home  with  Philippa,  whose 
every  mindless  laugh  pricked  on  her  resolution. 

Then  civil  war  burst  over  the  land.  I^o  spot  in  the 
country  was  more  fought  over  than  the  fertile  val- 
ley in  which  Heronshaw  stood.  The  quiet  strip  of 
country  became  the  granary  of  armies.  Miss  Abby's 
patriotism  was  unbounded.  She  discovered  that  she 
loved  Virginia  with  a  force  that  she  had  not  realized 
until  the  demand  was  made  upon  her.  Battles  raged 
about  her  house.  Armies  marched  in  front  of  her 
door.  Wounded  and  ill  craved  her  attention.  She 
did  not  refuse  succor  to  the  men  in  blue,  but  her 
heart  went  out  to  the  stricken  men  in  gray.  The 
Union  troops  respected  her,  and  the  Confederate 
soldiers  adored  her.  So  she  lived  on  unmolested  by 
either  side,  impartially  ministering  to  everyone  in 
trouble,  yet  with  her  heart  fixed  in  its  allegiance  to 
the  flag  that  was  barred  rather  than  to  that  which 
was  striped. 

Summer  in  1864.  The  men  in  gray  had  been 
fought  to  a  standstill.  The  end  was  evident  to  offi- 
cers and  men.  Weaker  souls  desert  the  losing  battle. 


The  Reparation  171 

With  stern  determination  the  braver  hearts  strove  in 
vain  to  check  the  abandonment  of  the  cause  by  those 
who  lacked  the  fortitude  that  sustains  defeat.  The 
way  of  a  deserter,  if  he  were  caught,  was  hard. 

Miss  Abby  was  standing  on  the  high  pillared  porch 
scanning  the  white  road  before  her.  Suddenly 
through  the  hedge  upon  the  other  side  of  the  road 
a  figure  crawled.  Her  eye  was  attracted  to  it.  A 
man  rose  cautiously  to  his  feet,  stared  up  and  down 
the  road,  then  darted  across  it  and  plunged  into  the 
neglected  undergrowth  bordering  what  remained  of 
Heronshaw.  Again  he  waited,  watchful.  Finding 
himself  unobserved,  he  slunk  through  the  grass  under 
the  trees,  and  stopped  before  the  Hall.  He  had  been 
wounded;  there  was  a  long  scar  across  his  face,  and 
his  cheek  was  caked  with  dried  blood.  He  was  a 
handsome  man,  whose  face  and  mouth  were  hidden 
by  a  mustache  and  beard.  He  wore  a  sergeant's 
chevrons  upon  his  sleeve. 

"  For  God's  sake,  Miss "  He  stopped. 

"  Ma'am,  won't  you  please  help  me? "  he  went  on 
entreatingly. 

Miss  Abby  knew  him  at  once,  in  spite  of  his  beard 
and  the  change  that  years  of  hard  living,  and  hard 
campaigning  perhaps,  had  wrought  in  him.  She 
schooled  herself  into  absolute  immobility.  He  had 
intended  to  make  himself  known  to  her,  but  after 
his  first  glance  at  her  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
she  had  not  recognized  him,  and  he  decided  that  he 
would  remain  unknown  as  the  better  part  of  discre- 
tion. 


172  The  Records 


"  I  am  always  ready  to  help  any  loyal  soldier  who 
wears  that  uniform,"  said  Miss  Abby  calmly. 

There  was  a  sudden  patter  of  hoofs  far  down  the 
road.  The  man  and  woman  both  heard  it  at  the  same 
time. 

"  My  God!  "  he  said,  "  they  are  after  me!  " 

"  Are  they  Federal  troops?  " 

"  No,"  answered  the  man,  reluctantly,  "  our  own 
cavalry." 

"  What!    Then  you  are " 

"  A  deserter,"  desperately.  "  For  God's  sake, 
ma'am,  hide  me  somewhere,  unless  you  wish  to  see 
me  shot  here  on  this  porch.  I  beg  you  for " 

He  intended  to  say  "  For  Philippa's  sake,"  but 
Miss  Abby  interrupted  him. 

"  I  will  help  you,"  she  said,  "  Come." 

The  lingering  remains  of  decency  in  the  man 
smote  him.  Like  all  characters  who  are  not  wholly 
bad,  who  are  simply  weak,  he  could  rise  to  the  meas- 
ure of  obligation  sometimes.  He  followed  her  into 
the  house,  therefore,  and  so  soon  as  he  was  concealed 
from  outside  view  he  stopped  her. 

"  Miss  Abby,"  he  said,  "  I  am " 

"  I  know  who  you  are,"  said  the  woman  quietly; 
"  I  knew  you  as  soon  as  I  saw  you.  Come,  you  have 
no  tune." 

"  And  you  will  hide  me — for — for  Philippa's 
sake?" 

"  What  I  do  I  do  for  her." 

"  Where  is  Philippa?  " 

"  Dead — to  you,"  answered  Miss  Abby  slowly. 


The  Reparation  173 

Fortunately  Philippa  was  far  afield  down  by  the 
brook,  where  she  was  wont  to  play  with  her  faithful 
black  mammy  as  a  guard.  If  only  Miss  Abby  could 
get  Graham  hidden  before  she  came  back  and  before 
the  soldiers  came  up. 

"  Miss  Abby,"  said  the  man,  striving  to  catch  her 
hand  as  they  ascended  the  stairs,  true  to  his  instincts 
even  in  his  frightful  peril,  for  a  short  shrift  would 
have  awaited  him  had  he  been  captured,  "  I — I 
always — admired  you." 

"  I  know,"  said  Miss  Abby.  "  Go  in  there.  The 
window  opens  on  a  balcony  at  the  back  of  the  house. 
From  there  you  can  get  to  the  roof." 

"  But  if  the  soldiers  come?  " 

"  I  will  keep  them  off.    You  need  not  fear." 

She  observed  with  a  fierce  joy  in  her  heart  that  he 
was  trembling. 

"  I've  fought  through  four  years  of  it,  Miss 
Abby,"  returned  the  shame-faced  man  apologeti- 
cally, "  as  long  as  there  was  a  chance  of  success,  but 
the  whole  cause  has  gone  to  smash  and " 

"How  were  you  wounded?"  interrupted  the 
woman. 

"  I  was  fired  on  by  the  guard  yesterday  when  I 
tried  to  break  away." 

"  I  will  do  what  I  can  for  you,"  she  said,  closing 
the  door  and  leaving  him. 

When  the  patrol  of  cavalry,  scouring  the  country 
for  deserters,  which  had  been  hot  upon  his  trail, 
drew  up  before  the  great  door  of  Heronshaw,  Miss 
Abby  was  ready  for  them.  Without  a  compunction 


174  The  Records 


she  told  them  that  she  had  seen  the  deserter,  that  he 
had  crossed  the  road  and  gone  on.  Such  was  her 
reputation  that  no  man  dreamed  of  questioning  her 
statement.  The  officer,  who  had  experienced  her 
hospitality,  accepted  her  words  without  hesitation. 
He  led  his  men  away,  and  when  they  had  gone  Miss 
Abby  went  upstairs  and  summoned  Graham  from  the 
roof. 

"  You  are  safe  now,"  ahe  said,  "  they  have  gone 
up  the  road." 

"  Did  you  tell  them " 

"I  lied  to  them.  I  told  them  you  were  not 
here." 

"  God  bless  you,  Miss  Abby!"  cried  the  man,  seiz- 
ing her  hand  'and  lifting  it  to  his  lips. 

The  woman  suffered  him  without  a  change  of 
countenance. 

"  You  are  tired?  " 

"  Desperately." 

"  And  hungry?  " 

"  I  have  eaten  nothing  since  early  yesterday  morn- 
ing. I  had  no  sleep  all  night.  They  hunted  me  like 
a  runaway  nigger,  curse  them!" 

"  Come  in  here."  She  threw  open  a  door.  "  This 
is  my  room.  You  will  be  safe  here,  undisturbed. 
No  one  enters.  I  will  bring  you  something  to  eat." 

She  ministered  to  him  like  an  angel.  She  washed 
and  bound  the  wound  upon  his  face.  She  brought 
him  the  best  that  the  ravages  of  war  had  left.  The 
last  bottle  of  wine  of  rare  old  vintage,  which  had 
remained  concealed  in  the  cellar,  she  gave  to  him. 


The  Reparation  175 

He  expanded  under  her  treatment  as  a  flower  in  the 
sun.  Safe,  comfortable,  well-fed,  his  fears  left  him. 
He  became  more  like  his  old  self.  All  his  fascination 
came  back  to  him.  Actually  he  made  love  to  this 
woman.  Neither  of  them  spoke  of  Philippa;  and 
Miss  Abby  had  given  orders  that  she  should  not  be 
disturbed.  The  feelings  that  ran  riot  in  her  breast 
are  beyond  description.  She  discovered  to  her  horror 
that  slhe  still  loved  this  man.  Yet  her  decision  to 
take  revenge  upon  him  with  her  own  hand  was  as 
strong  as  ever.  She  had  thought  swiftly  enough,  as 
he  stood  suppliant  before  her,  a  deserter  from  his 
colors,  that  she  had  but  to  say  the  word  to  see  him 
executed,  but  that  would  not  satisfy  her.  Her  own 
hand  must  do  the  deed.  Vengeance  was  her's,  not 
God's. 

She  listened  to  him.  She  allowed  him  to  ramble 
on.  She  did  not  discourage  his  efforts  at  lovemak- 
ing.  She  hated  herself  for  her  response  to  them. 
He  would  make  love  to  a  woman — any  woman — if 
one  foot  were  in  the  grave,  she  thought  bitterly. 
She  loathed  him,  yet  she  lingered.  She  spent  a  long 
time  with  him,  and  at  last  reluctantly  withdrew 
and  bade  him  rest.  Forgetful  of  her  so  soon  as  she 
left  him,  he  threw  himself  upon  the  bed  and  fell  at 
once  into  a  sleep  so  sound  that  it  was  almost  a  stupor, 
while  she  waited  listening  outside  the  door. 

Miss  Abby  had  fully  made  up  her  mind  to  kill  him. 
One  of  the  precious  treasures  of  her  heritage  had 
been  the  sword  of  the  first  Herondine,  a  long, 
straight,  sharp-pointed,  keen-edged,  Toledo  rapier, 


176  The  Records 


that  one  of  her  ancestors  had  bought  in  Spain  when 
he  went  hither  with  young  Charles  I.  on  his  mad 
escapade.  She  would  wipe  out  the  disgrace  that  had 
been  put  upon  her  family,  the  death  of  that  child,  the 
wreck  of  her  sister's  life,  her  own  humiliation,  with 
that  bright  and  treasured  blade.  So  soon  as  she 
satisfied  herself  that  he  was  asleep  she  went  down- 
stairs to  the  library  and  fetched  the  weapon. 

He  was  lying  slightly  upon  his  side  with  his  arm 
thrown  back,  his  throat  exposed.  She  would  drive  it 
home  there.  She  lifted  the  sword  awkwardly,  one 
hand  on  the  hilt,  the  other  on  the  blade,  which  cut 
her  palm  unheeded,  and  stood  over  him,  white  as 
death,  rigid  as  a  statue.  She  would  smite  him  as  Jael 
smote  Sisera,  as  Judith  slew  Holofernes,  as  Saul 
hewed  Agag.  She  was  all  ironside  now.  Yet  she  hesi- 
tated; why,  she  could  not  tell.  Perhaps  it  was  the 
sunlight.  Holding  the  weapon  with  one  hand  she 
went  softly  to  the  windows,  turned  the  slats  of  the 
Venetian  blinds,  which  had  been  left  open  for  cool- 
ness, and  shut  out  the  light.  There  was  no  hesitation 
in  her  heart.  She  could  do  it  better  in  the  darkness. 
That  was  all. 

Yes,  she  loved  him,  but  he  must  die.  God  had 
given  him  into  her  hands.  She  must  slay  him,  the 
despoiler  of  her  home.  She  went  back  to  his  side 
once  more  and  lifted  again  the  weapon.  There  was 
a  prayer  in  her  heart,  of  thankfulness  for  the  op- 
portunity, of  desire  that  she  might  strike  surely, 
and,  by  strange  inconsistency,  of  appeal  for  the  soul 
of  the  man  she  was  about  to  send  to  his  Maker. 


The  Reparation  177 

Her  hand  did  not  tremble.  She  slowly  lowered  the 
point  of  the  weapon  to  his  throat.  In  good  time 
she  could  throw  her  weight  upon  the  blade.  There 
was  no  hurry.  One  thrust  and  it  would  all  be  over. 

A  babble  of  laughter  broke  the  silence.  For  the 
first  time  in  years  Philippa  entered  Miss  Abby's  room 
unannounced,  uninvited.  What  had  brought  her 
there?  One  thing  Miss  Abby  had  been  strict  to 
enforce,  and  that  was  to  train  Miss  Philippa  to  re- 
spect her  sister's  privacy.  She  must  have  some  place 
where  she  could  be  absolutely  undisturbed  at  times, 
else  she  would  have  broken  down  in  the  life  she 
had  set  herself.  And  Philippa  had  never  entered 
her  room  until  on  that  afternoon.  The  younger 
woman  stepped  through  the  door  she  had  opened, 
then  stopped.  Miss  Abby  turned  and  looked  at  her 
staring  in  the  doorway. 

Miss  Philippa's  eyes,  aided  by  a  touch  of  light 
from  some  unscreened  crevice  flashing  on  the  steel, 
were  caught  by  the  shining  weapon.  With  a  little 
incoherent  cry  she  ran  forward,  seized  her  sister 
by  the  arm,  looked  her  in  the  face,  and  then,  com- 
pelled by  some  hidden  force,  her  eyes  fell  upon  the 
sleeping  figure  on  the  bed.  Her  gaze  strained  down 
upon  him.  There  was  a  moment  of  awful  silence,  a 
silence  like  that  in  which  mind  might  have  been 
added  to  matter,  when  God  breathed  the  breath  of 
life  into  mere  common  clay.  A  scream,  that  was 
as  a  pang  of  birth  agony,  burst  from  her  lips. 

"It's  David,  it's  David!"  she  cried.  "Thank 
God,  he  has  come  back  to  me!  David,  David!" 


178  The  Records 


She  threw  herself  upon  the  man's  breast  and  en- 
twined her  arms  around  his  neck.  She  kissed  him 
with  little  inarticulate  cries,  differing  from  those  she 
had  uttered  before,  in  that  there  was  heart  and  soul 
and  reason  in  their  harmonies.  The  sudden  sight  of 
the  man  she  had  loved  in  her  youth  had  called  her 
back  from  that  profound  into  which  his  cruelty 
and  desertion  had  plunged  her.  She  knew  nothing 
of  the  past  but  that  he  was  there,  that  he  had  come 
back  to  her,  that  she  loved  him. 

Miss  Abby,  as  if  paralyzed,  stood  holding  the  wea- 
pon. Was  it  for  this  that  he  had  returned.  Was 
it  for  this  that  she  had  waited?  Philippa  loved  him 
and  he  loved  Philippa.  What  a  repayment  was  here? 
Was  it  hatred,  jealousy — what  hideous  bafflement  was 
in  her  soul?  Slowly  Graham  raised  himself,  sleep  be- 
wildered at  first.  He  leaned  upon  one  arm.  He 
pushed  off  the  clinging  woman  Avith  the  other  hand 
and  stared  at  her. 

"Philippa?  "he  cried. 

"  David !  "  said  the  girl,  lifting  and  extending  her 
arms,  "  you  have  come  back  to  me !  You  love 
me " 

Something  snappfed.  Poor  Httle  Philippa — yet 
after  all  to  be  envied,  thought  Miss  Abby,  for  she 
went  into  eternity  with  an  assurance  in  her  heart 
that  the  man  she  loved  loved  her  as  well.  Could 
there  be  a  heaven  were  she  to  be  undeceived? 
Graham  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  lifting  the  prostrate 
body  placed  it  tenderly  on  the  bed. 

"  You  said  she  was  dead,"  he  gasped  out  hoarsely. 


The  Reparation  179 

Miss  Abby  pointed  to  her  sister. 

"  It  is  true — now." 

There  was  a  look  on  the  face  of  Philippa  that  no 
one  could  mistake.  The  two  gazed  at  her  in  silence. 

"  Thank  God,"  whispered  Miss  Abby  at  last. 

"  That  sword?"  asked  Graham.  "  What  were  you 
about  to  do?" 

"  Kill  you.  You  deceived  me.  You  broke  my 
heart."  All  the  long  pent  passion  in  the  woman's 
soul  rushed  to  her  lips.  "  You  came  here  and  made 
love  to  me,  a  lonely  woman,  and  I  believed  you! 
Must  a  woman  smile,  and  laugh,  and  kiss,  to  love? 
I  was  yours  body  and  soul.  You — you  threw  me 
aside  for  Philippa.  I  do  not  wonder  at  that.  That 
isn't  what  I  blame  you  for.  You  wrecked  that  child's 
life.  You  deserted  her  as  you  deserted  the  army. 
You  are  a  coward!  She  came  back  here  five  years 
ago  in  a  storm.  She  was  senseless  when  I  took  her 
in.  The  baby  was  born — your  baby " 

"  Where  is  the  child?  " 

"  Dead,  thank  God !  We  want  none  of  your 
blood  to  pollute  the  earth.  He  is  buried  yonder 
under  the  cypress." 

"And  Philippa?" 

"  Until  this  hour  she  has  been  as  a  child.  Her 
reason — thank  God  for  it! — fled  with  the  baby's 
birth.  I  pieced  out  her  story  from  her  ravings  in 
delirium.  I  prayed  daily,  hourly  that  God  might 
give  you  into  my  hands.  And  when  you  came  this 
morning,  I  knew  my  prayer  had  been  answered. 

"  And  you  were  going  to  kill  me?  " 


180  The  Records 


"  Another  second  and  I  would  have  sent  you  to 
hell  where  you  belong,"  said  the  woman  slowly.  In 
all  the  conversation  she  did  not  raise  her  voice  from 
its  quiet  level,  almost  subdued  monotone. 

"  If  it  had  not  been  for  Philippa — poor  Philippa!" 
said  the  man. 

He  stared  from  the  still  figure  of  the  dead  to  the 
stiller  figure  of  the  living.  He  was  not  lacking  in 
intuition.  Now  he  read  Miss  Abby's  soul  like  an 
open  book;  not  comprehending  all — he  was  not 
strong  enough  for  that — but  enough.  And  the 
sight  was  more  terribly  accusing  than  the  body  of 
Miss  Philippa.  He  was  not  all  weakness,  that  man, 
else  these  two  women  would  not  have  loved  him. 

"  You  are  right,"  he  said,  "  you  have  borne  much 
from  me.  I  will  make  atonement." 

He  threw  out  his  arms,  threw  back  his  head. 

"Strike!"  he  said. 

Clenching  her  teeth  Miss  Abby  lifted  the  sword. 
She  pointed  it  straight  at  Graham's  heart.  She  did 
not  flinch  nor  quiver;  neither  did  he.  Suddenly 
the  weapon  fell  ringing  to  the  floor. 

"  I  can  not!    Oh,  God,  I  can  not!  "  she  whispered. 

"  No?  Then  I  will  revenge  you,  Miss  Abby,"  said 
the  man  quietly. 

"  You  will  not  kill  yourself?  " 

"  No." 

"What  then?" 

Again  the  tramp  of  hoofs  upon  the  hard  road;  the 
clanging  of  sabres,  the  jingle  of  bits,  a  word  of 
quick  command. 


'Strike!"  he  said.— Page  180 


The  Reparation  181 

"  My  friends  down  there  will  attend  to  me,"  he 
said,  smiling  strangely. 

"  David,"  she  cried,  snatching  at  him  with  blood- 
stained hands  as  he  passed,  "  don't  go!  " 

To-morrow,  when  it  was  to  late,  he  would  repent 
it  bitterly,  to-day  he  was  determined.  With  a  white 
set  face  he  went  out.  She  heard  him  go  through  the 
hall,  she  heard  him  descend  the  stair,  she  heard  him 
hail  the  troopers.  She  ran  to  the  window  and  tore 
back  the  blind.  He  was  standing  at  the  foot  of  the 
cypress  tree  where  she  had  told  him  the  baby  was 
buried,  looking  down. 

The  troopers  came  clattering  up  the  driveway. 

"  Graham!  "  cried  the  captain  of  the  squadron. 
"At  last!" 

"  I  give  myself  up,"  said  the  man  quietly.  "  I 
am  a  deserter." 

"  You  shall  be  shot  in  the  morning,"  said  the 
officer,  motioning  for  his  men  to  lead  the  prisoner 
away. 

"  My  God,  my  God,"  whispered  Miss  Abby,  "  have 
mercy  upon  me,  have  mercy  upon  me !  " 


Ninth   Record 

THE    WRECK    AND    THE    LETTERS* 

I. 

The  smash-up  was  one  of  the  worst  that  ever  hap- 
pened on  the  B.  S.  &  W.  road. 

The  Westfield  night  express  had  been  wrecked  at 
Elwood  Junction  about  three  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
It  had  been  raining  more  or  less  for  a  week  all  over 
the  northwestern  part  of  the  State,  and  the  bad 
weather  had  culminated  in  a  cloud-burst.  A  small 
bridge,  which  was  really  nothing  more  than  a  short 
piece  of  trestle-work  thrown  over  a  small  branch  of 
the  Elwood  River,  which  was  usually  as  dry  as  a 
floor,  was  partially  washed  out,  the  stringers,  ties 
and  rails  being  left  standing. 

In  the  darkness  the  engine  went  through  it.  The 
ravine  was  both  shallow  and  narrow,  the  engine  filled 
the  space  from  bank  to  bank,  and  the  baggage  and 
mail  car  and  the  coach  piled  in  on  top  of  it.  Later 
on  they  found  the  engineer,  with  his  fireman  also, 
dead  under  the  engine,  so  that  he  was  beyond  cen- 
sure for  running  at  so  high  a  speed — sixty  miles  an 
hour — under  such  conditions. 

The  train,  which  was  the  limited  express  of  the 

•  By  courtesy  of  "  The  Smart  Set." 


184  The  Records 


road,  did  no  local  business.  There  were  only  a  few 
people  in  the  coach,  all  of  whom  escaped  with  their 
lives,  at  least.  The  two  rear  sleepers  did  not  leave 
the  track,  fortunately,  but  the  first  one,  that  carry- 
ing the  through  passengers  from  the  south,  strange 
to  say,  was  telescoped  with  the  preceding  coach,  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  it  was  a  new  and  heavy  Pull- 
man. It  was  in  that  ill-fated  car  that  most  of  the 
loss,  save  that  among  the  train  crew,  occurred.  The 
berths  had  nearly  all  been  occupied,  and  nine  pas- 
sengers in  the  front  half  of  the  car  were  killed,  while 
many  were  severely  injured. 

Fortunately,  as  it  was  summer,  there  was  no  con- 
flagration to  add  its  horrors  to  the  scene.  A  special 
train  with  nurses  and  physicians  and  other  helpers, 
together  with  the  wrecking  crew,  was  rushed  down 
from  Elwood  without  loss  of  time,  and  the  work  of 
rescuing  the  wounded  and  clearing  the  track  was  at 
once  begun.  The  dead  were  laid  along  the  station 
platform  at  Elwood,  as  they  were  removed  from  the 
special  train,  for  identification  prior  to  shipment  to 
their  several  destinations,  and  the  wounded  were 
made  as  comfortable  as  possible  either  in  the  cars,  at 
the  station,  or  at  the  emergency  hospital.  By  day- 
light, the  claim-agent  of  the  road,  who,  with  other 
officials  at  Beverly,  had  been  notified  by  wire,  ar- 
rived, and  took  charge  of  the  bodies. 

There  were  two  women,  a  little  girl,  a  baby,  a 
youth  of  seventeen,  and  four  men.  After  more  or 
less  difficulty  and  delay  they  were  all  identified  and 
their  relatives  communicated  with,  except  in  the  case 


The  Wreck  and  the  Letters          185 

of  one  man.  He  appeared  to  have  been  a  tall,  hand- 
some man  of  about  thirty.  He  had  evidently  un- 
dressed and  gone  regularly  to  bed  in  the  sleeper,  for 
he  had  nothing  on  him  but  a  suit  of  pajamas.  There 
was  no  mark  of  any  sort  on  them,  and  nothing  what- 
ever to  give  any  clue  to  the  man's  name  on  or  about 
his  person — a  naked  body  in  a  suit  of  pajamas,  that 
was  all.  The  sleeping  car  conductor  had  been  killed, 
while  the  porter  was  badly  wounded  and  in  a  sense- 
less condition. 

Of  course,  the  unidentified  man's  baggage  and 
clothing  were  somewhere  in  the  wreck,  if  they  had 
not  been  ground  to  pieces  in  the  ruin.  But  how  to 
find  such  things,  or  how  to  identify  them  with  the 
man,  was  a  puzzling  question.  There  was  a  great 
heap  of  miscellaneous  articles  on  the  station  plat- 
form, which  had  been  taken  from  the  wreck,  but  at 
present  it  was  impossible  to  separate  or  assign  them 
to  any  one  with  any  certainty.  The  claim-agent,  a 
tall,  slender  young  man,  whose  quiet,  rather  melan- 
choly air  gave  little  outward  evidence  of  his  inward 
keenness  and  capacity,  was  at  his  wits'  end  to  know 
how  to  identify  the  body  in  question. 

As  he  stood  pondering  the  problem,  one  of  his 
assistants  came  up  and  informed  him  that  the  porter 
of  the  wrecked  sleeper  had  at  last  recovered  con- 
sciousness, although  it  was  evident  that  his  hours 
were  numbered.  As  he  spoke  four  men  brought  the 
stricken  negro  out  on  the  platform  on  a  stretcher, 
intending  to  put  him  on  a  hospital  train  in  which 
others  of  the  more  severely  wounded  were  to  be 


186  The  Records 


taken  down  to  Beverly.  It  was  just  possible,  thought 
the  claim  agent,  that  the  porter  might  be  able  to 
identify  the  man.  He  motioned  to  the  bearers  to 
halt,  and  then,  with  the  help  of  the  assistant,  lifted 
up  the  dead  body  so  that  the  porter  could  see  the 
man's  face. 

"  Wilder,"  said  the  claim-agent,  gently,  "  I'm 
sorry  to  bother  you  now,  but  here  is  a  passenger 
from  your  car  about  whom  I  can  find  out  nothing. 
Can  you  help  us  to  identify  him?  Do  you  know  his 
name? " 

The  porter  stared  feebly  at  the  face  of  the  dead 
man. 

"  Doan  know  his  name,  suh,"  he  muttered. 

"  Where  was  his  berth?    Can  you  recollect  that?  " 

"  He  was  in  lowah  five,  suh,  I  think." 

"  Can  you  give  us  any  other  clue,  Wilder? " 

The  wounded  man  thought  deeply  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, by  a  very  painful  effort. 

"  Yas,  suh,  he  sent  a  telegram  last  night  f 'um 
Ladew  to  Miss  Inez — Inez — Lancy — at " 

He  stopped,  faltered,  struggled  to  go  on.  One  of 
the  bystanders  proffered  him  a  drink  of  whiskey,  but 
he  had  fainted. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  the  claim-agent,  compassion- 
ately; "  take  him  into  the  car,  men.  That's  enough 
to  trace  this  man." 

Laying  the  dead  main  gently  on  the  platform 
again,  the  claim-agent  went  into  the  telegraph  office, 
and  wired  the  operator  at  Ladew  to  repeat  to  him, 
for  the  purpose  of  establishing  an  identification,  the 


TJie  Wreck  and  the  Letters          187 

telegram  sent  last  night  at  six  o'clock  by  a  passenger 
on  number  three  to  a  Miss  Inez  Lancy,  whereabouts 
unknown.  In  a  short  time  the  original  message  was 
in  his  hand.  It  ran  this  way: 

Miss  Inez  Lancy, 

Care  of  Hotel  Sullivan,  Westfield. 
Will  meet  you  Monday  morning,   at  ten-thirty, 
same  place. 

HARRY. 

Here  was  a  valuable  clue.  A  wire  was  at  once 
despatched  to  the  proprietor  of  the  Hotel  Sullivan, 
directing  him  to  inform  Miss  Inez  Lancy,  presumably 
one  of  his  guests,  that  a  man,  supposed  to  be  the 
man  who  had  appointed  a  meeting  with  her  at  ten- 
thirty  that  morning,  and  who  signed  his  name 
"  Harry,"  had  been  killed  in  the  wreck  at  Elwood 
Junction,  and  to  ask  Miss  Lancy  if  she  would  come 
down  and  identify  the  body,  or  give  information 
which  would  lead  to  its  immediate  disposition. 

Two  hours'  later,  Miss  Inez  Lancy  herself  de- 
scended from  the  steps  of  the  parlor-car  on  the 
morning  local,  and  was  received  by  the  claim-agent, 
w»ho  had  been  notified  by  wire  to  expect  her. 

Miss  Inez  Lancy  was  dressed  in  black — not  mourn- 
ing, of  course,  there  had  been  no  time  for  that — but 
she  had  at  least  discarded  all  colors,  save  that  which 
shone  in  her  very  pretty  eyes  and  in  the  red  of  her 
rounded  cheeks.  She  was  a  stunning-looking  woman, 
if  a  trifle  bold  in  her  carriage.  Tall,  golden-haired, 
she  made  quite  an  imposing  appearance,  in  spite  of 


188  The  Records 


her  general  air  of  agitation  and,  strange  to  say,  of 
anxiety  and  apprehension.  Yet  there  was  something 
about  her  which  impressed  the  claim-agent  unpleas- 
antly, something  he  did  not  like.  There  were  things 
lacking  in  her,  not  compensated  for  by  other  things 
added.  She  did  not  seem  quite — but  her  quality  and 
her  character  were  nothing  to  him.  He  put  all  such 
considerations  aside,  and  met  her  with  an  excellent 
asumption  of  most  respectful  sympathy. 

"  I  am  the  claim-agent  of  the  road,"  he  said. 
"  And  you,  I  presume,  are  Miss  Lancy?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  exclaimed,  in  great  agitation. 
"  Oh,  sir,  tell  me " 

She  clasped  her  hands  appealingly,  and  looked 
at  him  from  beneath  the  fronting  shadow  of  her 
very  large  hat.  The  pose,  the  manner,  the  voice, 
were  perfect,  and  yet 

"  You  got  my  wire,  madam?  "  he  asked,  whereat 
she  nodded. 

"  Yes.    Take  me  to  him  at  once." 

The  body  of  the  poor  man  had  been  taken  to  a 
local  undertaking  establishment,  and  a  drive  of  a 
short  distance,  during  which  Miss  Lancy  elaborately 
sobbed  into  her  handkerchief,  brought  them  to  the 
door.  Once  in  the  private  room — "  the  mortuary 
chamber,"  advertising  circulars  called  it — the  woman 
stepped  to  the  side  of  the  casket,  and  lifted  the  cloth 
covering  the  face  of  the  dead. 

"  It  is  he,  it  is  he !  "  she  screamed,  throwing  her- 
self upon  the  body  with  every  outward  manifestation 
of  grief  and  agony. 


189 


She  kissed  the  face  of  the  dead  again  and  again, 
lavishing  endearments  upon  him.  It  was  all  very 
touching  and  affecting  indeed,  thought  the  claim- 
agent,  and  yet —  However,  he  managed  to  quiet 
Miss  Lancy  at  last.  He  took  her  to  the  village  hotel, 
where,  after  getting  the  address  of  the  man's  rela- 
tives, he  left  her  to  the  tender  ministrations  of  the 
landlady  and  her  assistants. 

The  man's  name  was  Henry  Richardson.  He  had 
been  a  mining-engineer  by  profession,  and  a  heavy 
buyer  and  owner  of  mining  properties  in  Colorado. 
His  father  was  also  greatly  interested  in  mines, 
being  one  of  the  largest  mine  owners  in  that  State. 
Miss  Inez  Lancy  declared  that  she  was  the  dead 
man's  fiancee,  that  he  was  coming  to  Westfield  that 
morning,  as  his  telegram  showed,  to  marry  her  forth- 
with. Her  grief  was  terrible  to  see,  and  her  con- 
dition evoked  the  sympathy  and  the  pity  of  all  the 
good  women  of  the  little  town,  who  were  unremit- 
ting in  their  efforts  to  assuage  her  sorrow. 

The  claim-agent  immediately  wired  the  elder  Mr. 
Richardson,  and  received  instructions  to  prepare  the 
body  for  shipment  in  the  best  possible  manner,  and 
forward  it  to  Denver  without  delay.  The  only  train 
which  made  a  Denver  connection  did  not  leave  till 
night,  however,  and  late  in  the  afternoon  the  claim- 
agent  received  a  telegram  from  Hot  Springs,  Arkan- 
sas, addressed  to  the  local  agent  at  Elwood,  by  the 
way,  which  greatly  astonished  him.  It  ran  as  fol- 
lows, being  written  with  a  woman's  discursiveness: 


190  The  Records 


Henry  Richardson,  of  whose  death  I  am  just  in- 
formed, is  my  husband.  Will  arrive  Tuesday  morn- 
ing. Hold  body  till  I  come. 

MBS.  HENEY  RICHABDSON. 

The  story  of  the  wreck  had  not  yet  appeared  in  any 
of  the  papers;  there  was  no  source  from  which  the 
woman  signing  herself  Mrs.  Henry  Richardson  could 
have  heard  of  her  husband's  death  except  from  his 
father  in  Denver;  for  outside  of  the  claim-agent  and 
Miss  Inez  Lancy,  no  one  else  knew  or  could  know  of 
it.  In  the  face  of  such  reasoning,  the  conclusion  that 
she  was  really  the  man's  wife  was  irresistible. 

If  that  were  so,  who  was  Miss  Inez  Lancy? 

There  had  always  been  a  suspicion  of  that  young 
lady  in  the  claim->agent's  mind,  he  thought,  trium- 
phantly. He  put  the  telegram  in  his  pocket,  after 
giving  directions  to  hold  the  body  and  notify  the 
father  in  Denver  of  this  new  development,  asking 
advice  from  him,  and  walked  slowly  down  the  village 
street  to  the  hotel.  Arrived  there  he  immediately 
asked  for  Miss  Lancy. 

"  You  can't  possibly  see  her,"  said  the  landlady, 
a  kind-hearted,  motherly  old  body,  who  had  been 
most  attentive  to  the  woman;  "  she  is  quite  pros- 
trated over  this  terrible  affair,  and  is  lying  down. 
She  must  not  be  disturbed  on  any  account." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  insisted  the  claim-agent 
politely  but  firmly,"  she  must  see  me.  I  have  an  im- 
portant message  about  Mr.  Richardson." 


The  Wreck  and  the  Letters          191 

"  The  poor  thing's  almost  dead  with  grief  and 
shock  and " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know,  but  you  must  tell  her  I  must 
see  her  at  once,  nevertheless." 

The  woman  at  last  went  off,  evidently  resentful 
of  the  claim-agent's  lack  of  sympathy  and  considera- 
tion for  her  charge. 

"  Like  the  soulless  corporation  he  represents,  in- 
truding upon  the  sorrows  of  that  poor  lamb  up- 
stairs," she  muttered  as  she  went. 

Well,  it  turned  out  that  Miss  Lancy,  "  poor  lamb," 
would  see  the  claim-agent  after  all,  and,  after  a 
few  moments,  he  was  ushered  into  her  presence.  The 
landlady  showed  a  disposition  to  linger,  but,  at  the 
claim-agent's  pointed  request,  she  at  last  flounced 
indignantly  out  of  the  room. 

"  Miss  Lancy,"  said  the  claim-agent  to  that  lady, 
who  sat  languidly,  half  reclining  in  a  large  arm-chair 
near  the  window,  her  face  turned  carefully  away 
from  the  light,  "  I  intended,  in  accordance  with  his 
father's  directions  to  send  the  body  of  Mr.  Richard- 
son  " 

"  My  poor,  poor  love !  "  wailed  Miss  Lancy. 

"  — to  Denver  to-night.  But  a  few  moments  since 
I  received  a  telegram  from  his " 

The  claim-agent  paused.  The  woman  before  him 
sat  bolt  upright  now,  her  grief  merged  into  a  sud- 
den interest  in  what  he  was  about  to  say. 

"Yes.     Go  on,"  she  exclaimed;  "from  whom?" 

"  From    his    wife,"    answered    the    claim-agent 


192  The  Records 


abruptly,  at  the  same  time  carefully  watching  the 
face  of  his  companion. 

"His  wife!"  she  faltered,  turning  very  red  in- 
deed. 

"  Certainly,  his  wife.  Didn't  you  know  that  he 
was  married? "  he  asked  swiftly. 

"  Of  course — I — er — certainly  not!  "  she 
answered  in  great  confusion,  "  and  I  don't  believe 
it,  either.  It  is  some  imposter.  Why,  he  was  en- 
gaged to  me.  His  telegram  proved  that." 

It  was  a  bold  statement  but  it  failed. 

"  It  proved  that  he  was  coming  to  meet  you, 
certainly,  but  nothing  else,"  rejoined  the  claim- 
agent. 

"  That  woman  is  some  adventuress.  I  shall  stay 
and  face  her.  He  was  mine — mine !  "  burst  out  Miss 
Lancy  vehemently. 

It  was  exceedingly  well  done,  thought  the  claim- 
agent  admiringly.  Miss  Lancy  might  have  made  a 
fortune  on  the  stage,  he  was  sure,  and  he  was  an 
excellent  judge.  But  to  be  a  successful  claim-agent 
it  is  necessary  to  be  able  to  fathom  human  nature 
thoroughly,  and  Miss  Lancy's  whole  performance  did 
not  deceive  him. 

"  Miss  Lancy,"  he  said  gravely,  "I  am  sorry  to 
be  compelled  to  contradict  you  or  to  question  your 
assertions,  but  I  assure  you  that  I  am  convinced  that 
he  was  married  and  that  the  lady  in  question  was 
his  wife  and " 

"  I  didn't  know  it  anyway,"  she  interrupted,  des- 
perately anxious  to  maintain  her  position. 


The  Wreck  and  the  Letters          193 

"  Pardon  me,  you  virtually  admitted  it  a  moment 
since  and " 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  which  the  claim- 
agent  took  the  liberty  of  answering  himself,  under 
the  circumstances.  A  moment  after,  he  read  a  tele- 
gram sent  him  from  the  station,  which  was  from  Mr. 
Richardson,  cancelling  his  former  wire  and  directing 
the  body  to  be  held  for  the  arrival  of  his  son's  wife. 

"  That  settles  it,  Miss  Lancy,"  said  the  claim- 
agent,  putting  the  yellow  slip  of  paper  in  her  hand. 

"I'll  stay  here  and  confront  the  woman!"  she 
burst  out  viciously. 

"  Pardon  me  again,"  returned  the  claim-agent, 
suavely — he  was  a  very  polite  claim-agent  indeed, 
and  he  had  been  doing  some  hard  thinking  in  the 
last  few  moments,  "  I  think  you  will  not." 

"I  will,  I  will,  I  tell  you f" 

What  a  coarse,  vulgar  woman!  thought  the  claim- 
agent.  All  he  said,  however,  was: 

"  You  will  go  back  to  Westfield  to-night,  madam, 
and  you  will  stay  away  from  here  till  that  man  is 
shipped  to  Denver  in  the  custody  of  his  wife." 

"  Oh,  will  I?    Who'll  make  me? " 

"  I  trust  your  own  good  sense  will  show  you 
that  I  am  right." 

"  It  doesn't.    Now,  who'll  make  me  go?  " 

"  I  will.  I  won't  have  you  make  a  scene  and  a 
scandal  on  our  lines  over  that  man  in  the  presence 
of  his  poor,  bereaved  wife.  Afterward  you  will  do 
as  you  please.  Now  you  will  go,  stay  away  and  keep 
quiet." 


194  The  Records 


"I'll  do  just  as  I  please,  now!  "  she  retorted,  de- 
fiantly, but  evidently  very  ill  at  ease. 

"  The  train  leaves  at  nine  to-night.  I  shall  be 
here  with  a  carriage  at  half  after  eight.  Meantime, 
you  will  not  mention  this  to  any  one,  I  am  sure,"  he 
continued,  inflexibly;  then  he  bowed  to  her — the 
claim-agent  was  always  polite — and  left  her  baffled, 
furious,  yet  determined  to  have  her  way. 

His  calm  confidence  shook  her  assurance  to  a 
marked  degree,  yet  she  strove  to  keep  up  her  spirits, 
and  to  cling  to  her  resolution  to  stay  just  where  she 
was  and  confront  the  wife.  As  for  the  claim-agent, 
in  spite  of  his  firmness  he  was  filled  with  dismay. 
If  Miss  Lancy  absolutely  refused  to  go,  he  could  see 
no  way  to  compel  her  to  leave  except  by  force,  which 
was  not  to  be  thought  of.  Yet,  go  she  must.  He 
was  resolved  that  there  should  be  no  scene,  no  scan- 
dal about  the  dead  man,  no  two  women  claiming 
rights  that  belonged  to  one,  no  adventuress — so  he 
was  satisfied  Miss  Lancy  was  to  be  described — dis- 
puting with  the  dead  man's  lawful  wife.  He  even 
felt  a  sort  of  sympathy  for  the  dead  man  himself, 
albeit  his  career  evidently  had  not  been  a  spotless 
one.  The  man's  fame  would  be  utterly  blasted  if 
Miss  Lancy  remained  and  created  a  scene,  and  he 
could  say  never  a  word  nor  urge  a  plea  in  his  own 
defense.  Yes,  the  woman  must  be  got  away  at  all 
hazards,  but  how?  He  racked  his  fertile  brain  for 
some  means — and  in  vain. 

His  cogitations  were  interrupted  by  the  approach 
of  the  general  superintendent  of  the  road,  a  veteran 


The  Wreck  and  the  Letters          195 

railroad  man,  who  had  risen  after  many  years  from 
the  ranks.  He  had  assumed  charge  of  the  work  of 
clearing  the  road  that  day. 

"  Here,"  he  said,  handing  the  claim-agent  a  thick 
package  of  letters,  "  you'd  better  .take  charge  of 
these.  They  were  picked  up  in  the  sleeper.  The 
woman  who  wrote  'em,  and  the  man,  too,  must  be 
a  bad  lot.  They're  sickening,  even  to  me." 

The  claim-agent  took  the  package,  and,  returning 
to  the  station,  he  read  over  the  first  one.  There  was 
no  name  in  the  letter  till  the  signature  was  reached, 
and  that  was  "Inez"! 

The  letters  could  not  be  described.  They  revealed 
a  depth  of  depravity  on  the  part  of  the  writer  and 
receiver  which  made  the  claim-agent  almost  doubt 
their  humanity.  They  settled  one  puzzling  ques- 
tion, however.  At  half-after  eight  the  claim-agent 
presented  himself  at  the  door  of  Miss  Lancy's  room. 
Bidden  to  enter,  he  found  that  young  lady  hatless 
and  seemingly  composed,  with  no  outward  intention 
of  leaving  that  night. 

"  I've  come  for  you,  Miss  Lancy,"  said  the  claim- 
agent. 

"  I  see  you  have,"  she  returned  coolly,  "  and,  as  I 
said  before,  it  does  not  suit  me  to  leave  to-night." 

"  Miss  Lancy,  do  you  recognize  this  letter? "  said 
the  claim-agent,  spreading  open  one  from  the  pack- 
age, and  holding  it  close  to  the  lamp,  so  that  she 
could  see  it. 

The  woman  gazed  at  it,  shivered  violently,  and 
turned  a  dull,  angry  red  again. 


196  The  Records 


"You're  no  gentleman!"  she  said,  wrathfully, 
"to  read  a  lady's  letter!  Besides,  I  didn't  write  it, 
any  way,"  she  went  on,  in  a  vain  effort  to  repair  her 
blunder. 

"  I  should  not  like  to  have  any  one  see  such  letters 
as  these,"  said  the  claim->agent,  "  even  the  lowest — 
lady,"  he  paused — and  how  she  hated  him  for  that 
pause — "  in  the  land  would  not  like  that,  would 
she?" 

"  You  brute,  you  brute !  "  cried  the  woman,  look- 
ing as  if  she  could  kill  him. 

"  It  is  a  quarter  to  nine  now,  Miss  Lancy;  we  have 
just  time  enough  to  get  to  the  station,"  said  the 
claim-agent. 

"I  won't  go,  I  tell  you!" 

"  Allow  me — your  hat,"  he  continued,  unheeding 
her  interruptions  as  he  handed  it  to  her. 

"  My  bill — I  haven't — I  left  my  purse "  she 

faltered,  rising  in  spite  of  herself. 

"  I'll  attend  to  that.  You  will  take  my  arm,  so, 
this  way — here  is  the  carriage." 

The  claim-agent  was  a  wonderfully  polite  young 
man. 

He  did  not  feel  safe,  however,  until,  standing  on 
the  platform,  he  watched  the  lights  of  the  express 
bearing  the  unfortunate  Miss  Lancy  northward,  dis- 
appear in  the  darkness.  It  had  been  a  trying  day 
for  the  claim-agent.  He  took  off  his  hat,  and  wiped 
the  perspiration  from  his  forehead. 

"  And  she  forgot  to  ask  me  for  the  letters,  she 
was  so  angry,"  he  murmured  in  no  little  surprise, 
as  he  turned  to  go  baak  to  the  hotel  for  the  night. 


"You!"— Page  197 


The  Wreck  and  the  Letters          197 


II. 


The  morning  express  was  due  at  Elwood  at  tea 
o'clock.  The  claim-agent  met  it,  of  course.  As  the 
long  train  drew  up  at  the  platform,  he  stepped  back 
toward  the  steps  of  the  southern  through  sleeper 
from  St.  Louis  nerving  himself  up  for  the  difficult 
and  somewhat  unpleasant  task  of  receiving  the 
widow  of  the  dead  mining-engineer.  Only  one  pas- 
senger left  the  sleeper  and  that  was  a  woman.  The 
porter  set  her  bag  on  the  platform  and  reentered 
his  car.  Uncertain  as  to  direction  in  her  unfamiliar 
surroundings,  she  turned  away  from  the  approach- 
ing claim-agent  and  paused  in  hesitation  as  to  what 
to  do  next. 

He  had  time  before  he  reached  her  to  notice  that 
she  was  small  in  stature,  but  with  a  beautiful  figure, 
well  set  off  by  her  fashionably  cut,  exquisitely  fit- 
ting black  gown.  Something  about  her  appearance 
caused  the  heart  of  the  claim-agent  to  throb  madly 
in  his  breast.  Instinctively,  he  quickened  his  pace, 
his  arm  stretched  out  toward  her.  He  was  close  by 
her  side  when  she  turned  suddenly,  faced  him,  lifted 
her  hand  in  great  astonishment  and  exclaimed : 

"You!" 

The  claim-agent  recovered  himself  by  a  tremen- 
dous effort.  Dissimulation  is  supposedly  .an  attribute 
peculiar  to  the  other  sex,  but  he  noticed  that 
whereas  he  was  successful  in  controlling  himself  the 
woman  seemed  utterly  unable  to  regain  her  com- 


198  The  Records 


posure.  She  stared  at  him  as  if  he  had  risen  from 
the  dead.  Her  face,  which  had  been  very  pale, 
slowly  flamed  with  color,  her  lip  trembled  until  she 
bit  it  to  keep  it  still,  and  a  light,  whether  of  terror, 
surprise,  satisfaction,  or  appeal,  or  a  blending  of  all 
four,  he  could  not  tell,  came  into  her  brown  eyes. 

"You!"  she  exclaimed  again  breathlessly. 

"Yes,  I,"  he  answered  formally,  lifting  his  hat 
and  making  an  attempt  to  pass  her. 

"I  did  not — I  did  not  expect "  she  faltered. 

"  No,  I  suppose  not,"  he  answered  with  some  bit- 
terness, "  but  you  will  pardon  me,  I  am  expecting  a 
lady » 

"  A  lady?"  she  interrupted,  with  a  curiously  re- 
sentful intonation. 

"  Yes,  the  widow  of  a  passenger  killed  in  a  wreck 
at " 

"  I  forgot  him,"  murmured  the  woman  in  deep 
contrition. 

"All  aboard!"  called  the  conductor  suddenly. 

"  Wait,"  cried  the  claim-agent,  lifting  a  warning 
hand  and  putting  his  foot  on  the  car  step,  "  I  must 
see  if  she  is  on  the  sleeper." 

"  I  am  Mrs.  Kichardson,"  abruptly  said  the  woman 
to  whom  he  had  been  speaking,  at  the  same  time 
laying  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

The  claim-agent  stepped  from  the  car,  signaled  to 
the  conductor  to  go  ahead — that  was  the  first  thing 
to  be  done — and  once  more  faced  the  woman.  This 
time  he  was  the  weaker  vessel. 


199 


"  Oh!"  he  exclaimed,  lamely  enough,  as  the  train 
slowly  passed  them. 

The  woman  nodded.  The  claim-agent  bowed  for- 
mally again. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  making  a  valiant 
effort  to  recover  his  self-possession,  "  I  did  not 
know." 

"  Of  course  not;  how  could  you?" 

"  If  you  will  come  this  way,  madam,  I  have  a  car- 
riage here;  I  will  take  you  to  him." 

He  managed  to  speak  indifferently,  in  spite  of  his 
excessive  agitation. 

"  I  must  tell  you,"  said  the  woman,  so  soon  as 
they  entered  the  carriage,  "  that — after  we — after 
I  left  you  and  was  married — to — him — I  found  out 
what  a  terrible  mistake  it  was.  And — oh,  don't 
look  at  me  so !  It  is  cruel !  " 

She  leaned  her  head  against  the  cushions,  and 
sobbed  bitterly. 

The  claim-agent  did  not  know  what  to  do,  and  he 
was  a  rarely  resourceful  young  man,  too.  He  knew 
well  enough  what  he  wanted  to  do,  however.  He 
wanted  to  slip  his  arm  around  the  woman's  waist, 
lay  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  take  her  hands  in  his 
and  comfort  her — kiss  away  her  tears.  He  had  done 
this  for  her  before,  too,  but  it  did  not  seem  quite 
appropriate  conduct  for  the  present  strange  situa- 
tion. So  he  sat  up  very  straight  and  stiff,  and  did 
nothing.  'Tis  a  wise  claim-agent  who  knows  when  to 
do  nothing. 

"  We  had  not  lived — together — since  the  first  few 


200  The  Records 


months  of  our  marriage,  six  years  ago/'  resumed  his 
companion,  after  a  time. 

Ah,  well  he  knew  the  time!  He  could  recall  as 
yesterday  the  shock  sustained  by  a  young  railroad 
man  who  had  gone  West  to  seek  his  fortune,  when 
he  received  that  incoherent,  blotted,  tear-stained  let- 
ter from  the  sweetheart  who  had  promised  to  wait 
for  him,  begging  him  to  forget  her  because  she  was 
going  to  be  married  to  another  man.  Absence,  pov- 
erty, the  wishes  of  friends,  the  pressure  of  parental 
desire,  had  overborne  her  resistance.  And  now  he 
was  sitting  by  her  side  again,  his  pulses  beating,  his 
soul  thrilling.  And  she  was  married  and  her  hus- 
band was  dead,  and  he  was  taking  her  to  him.  And, 
until  this  moment,  he  had  never  known  the  man's 
name.  Her  voice  called  him  to  himself  again. 

"  There  was  no  scandal,  no  divorce;  we  just  sep- 
arated. Henry — Mr.  Richardson — was  such  a  good 
man.  When  he  found  I  loved — that  I  did  not  care 
for  him — he — he  had  a  right  to  be  very  angry,  as 
he  was.  It  was  my  fault.  I  ought  never  to  have 
married.  I  was  to  blame.  He  was  so  good  and 
true  a  man!" — the  claim-agent  thought  grimly  of 
Miss  Inez  Lancy  and  the  package  of  letters  in  his 
pocket,  but  he  said  nothing — "  And  now  he  is  dead, 
in  this  sudden,  awful  way — poor  Henry!" 

She  broke  down  and  sobbed  afresh  as  the  carriage 
stopped.  The  claim-agent  got  out,  and  offered  her 
his  hand. 

"Is — he — in  there?"  she  asked. 

"  Yes.     Do  you  wish  to  see  him  now?  " 


The  Wreck  and  the  Letters          201 

She  nodded,  dropped  her  veil,  and  followed  the 
claim-agent  into  the  room.  Her  demeanor  there  was 
very  different  from  what  Miss  Lancy's  had  been. 
She  stood  quietly  looking  upon  the  face  of  the  dead, 
murmuring,  "  Poor,  poor  Henry!  "  in  a  pitying,  half- 
caressing  voice.  The  claim-agent  hated  himself  for 
it,  but  fierce  pangs  of  jealousy  tore  his  heart  at  the 
sight  and  sound.  Finally,  oblivious  of  his  presence, 
apparently,  she  said  quietly,  solemnly  almost,  as  if 
making  a  vow  or  taking  an  oath: 

"  We  did  not  love  each  other,  Henry,  or,  at  least, 
I  did  not  k»ve  you,  and  we  were  not  happy  together; 
but  in  all  your  grief  you  were  true  to  me,  and  so 
I  shall  be  to  your  memory." 

The  claim-agent  thought  again  of  Miss  Inez  Lancy 
and  her  letters,  and  this  time  with  even  a  grimmer 
feeling  than  before ;  but,  as  before,  he  said  nothing. 

As  was  only  proper,  the  claim-agent  devoted  him- 
self to  his  companion  until  her  departure.  In  spite 
of  her  marriage  she  seemed  to  him  as  innocent  and 
artless  as  she  had  been  when  he  loved  her  as  a  girl. 
The  intervening  years  were  wiped  out  of  the  man's 
memory.  He  forgot  everything  but  that  he  was  in 
her  presence  again.  For  some  men,  only  to  look  at 
the  woman  beloved  is  to  drink  of  the  waters  of  Lethe. 
And  before  they  parted  the  claim-agent  spoke  his 
heart. 

"  Amy,"  he  said,  "  under  any  other  circumstances, 
I  should  never  have  mentioned  it  now.  But  you  are 
leaving  in  an  hour.  Our  paths  lie  wide  apart.  I 
may  never  have  another  opportunity  to  speak  to  you. 


202  The  Records 


You  have  been  separated  from  your — from  Mr. 
Richardson  for  over  five  years,  you  said.  You  did 
not  love  him.  I  believe  you  once  loved  me.  It 
seems  horrible  to  speak  of  it  now,  but  I  want  you 
to  know  that  I  care  for  no  woman  but  you,  that  I 
never  have,  that  I  never  shall.  I  love  you  more  than  I 
ever  did;  and  if,  after  awhile,  you  will  take  me,  I 
shall  devote  my  life  to  making  you  happy.  I  have 
been  faithful  all  these  years  and  shall  be  to  the 
end." 

There  was  an  acute  though  unintentional  reproach 
in  much  that  he  said,  and  she  winced  under  it;  yet 
the  depth  of  his  passion,  which  could  even  forgive 
her  own  defection,  moved  her  intensely.  His  plea 
was  the  more  impressive  because  he  made  it  so  sim- 
ply, with  so  much  directness,  with  scarcely  an  altera- 
tion in  the  tones  of  his  voice  even.  Only  his  hand, 
lying  on  the  table  beside  her,  tightly  clenched  and 
trembling  betrayed  his  agitation.  She  answered  him 
as  simply  and  quietly  as  he  had  spoken. 

"  Frank,"  she  said,  "  I  can  not  deny  my  own  heart 
now;  and  especially  in  this  solemn  hour  it  seems  that 
I  should  speak  only  the  truth.  Where  Henry  has 
gone,"  she  went  on  idealizing  the  dead  man  in  a 
way  that  was  quite  natural  and  to  be  expected, 
"  there  is  all  truth,  I  know,  and  even  he  would  not 
care  now.  I  never  cared  for  him;  I  always  loved 
you.  It  was  because  of  that  we  separated.  I  made 
him  very  unhappy  in  his  life.  Something  tells  me 
he  loved  me  to  the  end.  He  might  have  secured  a 
divorce  at  any  time,  but  he  never  did.  And  now 


The  Wreck  and  the  Letters          203 

he  is  dead.  He  probably  died  thinking  of  me,  loving 
me.  I  owe  him  a  long  reparation  and  I  intend  to 
make  it.  You  heard  what  I  said  over  his  dead  body. 
I  mean  it.  My  conscience  hurts  me  when  I  think 
of  what  I  made  him  suffer.  Poor  Henry !  " 

It  was  a  strange  and  unusual  situation,  indeed. 

"  You  seem  to  care  more  for  him  dead  than  you 
ever  did  for  him  living?  "  questioned  the  claim-agent 
sadly. 

"  Yes,  perhaps  I  do,"  she  answered  slowly.  For 
the  moment  she  almost  fancied  she  loved  her  hus- 
band. "  And  I  am  going  to  be'  faithful  to  his  dead 
memory,  too." 

The  luxury  of  being  a  martyr  was  already  exercis- 
ing its  powerful  fascination  upon  her.  Yet  she  lif fed 
her  eyes  to  the  face  of  the  young  man  before  her 
and  paused.  He  looked  white  and  drawn  and 
pained.  He  had  risen  and  both  hands  were  tightly 
clasped  now.  At  the  sight  of  him,  pity  for  him  and 
love  for  him  fought  with  duty  and  martyrdom  in 
her  heart — but  in  vain.  She,  too,  rose  and  laid  her 
hand  tenderly  on  his  breast. 

"  Don't  grieve  so,  Frank,"  she  said  softly,  "  I 
am  not  worth  it " — and  perhaps  she  was  not,  but 
when  did  that  ever  comfort  or  convince  a  lover? — 
"  But  so  far  as  my  heart  goes  it  is  yours;  it  always 
has  been  yours,  it  always  will  be  yours.  But  mar- 
riage is  not  for  me." 

"  Very  well,  Amy,"  resignedly  said  the  claim- 
agent,  seeing  the  futility  of  further  appeal.  "  If 
the  time  ever  does  come  you  will  let  me 


204  The  Records 


"  It  will  never  come,"  she  answered  firmly. 

After  she  had  left  him  that  night,  the  claim- 
agent  took  out  the  package  of  letters  and  went  over 
them  again.  Yes,  there  was  no  doubt  of  it.  Rich- 
ardson was  arranging  to  get  a  divorce,  after  which 
Miss  Lancj  evidently  hoped  and  expected  he  would 
marry  her,  if  the  bad  letters  of  a  bad  woman  were 
to  be  accepted  as  evidence.  So  far  from  having 
been  faithful  and  devoted  to  his  wife,  the  letters 
proved  that  he  had  been  untrue  to  her,  that  he  hated 
her.  Poor  Amy!  if  she  only  knew  what  was  in  those 
letters.  "  Poor  Henry!"  And  she  thought  him  such 
a  good  man! 

A  terrible  temptation  seized  the  claim-agent  as  he 
thought  over  the  situation.  The  woman  he  loved 
would  be  faithful  to  an  ideal;  but  for  that  she  would 
marry  him  and  he  could  make  her  so  happy.  The 
letters  told  all.  He  could  shatter  her  ideal  in  an 
instant.  It  would  be  so  easy  to  send  the  letters  to 
her  anonymously.  He  would  never  be  suspected. 
The  letters  belonged  to  her,  anyhow;  she  was  the 
man's  wife,  and  should  succeed  to  his  property.  She 
had  taken  everything  eke  belonging  to  him  away 
with  her;  only  these  were  left.  They  would  open 
her  eyes,  indeed,  if  only  they  were  sent  to  her.  But 
the  claim-agent  could  not  do  that.  Richardson  was 
dead  and  helpless  now.  He  could  not  strike  at  a  dead 
man.  He  could  not  win  a  woman's  consent  to  marry 
him  by  such  means  as  that,  not  even  if  he  was  sure 
she  loved  him,  and  he  was  sure  he  could  make  her 
very  happy.  No,  there  was  nothing  he  could  do. 


The  Wreck  and  the  Letters          205 

The  letters  were  sealed  up  in  an  envelope  and,  with 
other  unclaimed  articles  of  value,  were  put  in  the 
claim-agent's  safe  for  future  disposition.  He  took 
up  the  round  of  life  again  bravely  enough,  but  the 
recent  meeting  had  thrown  him  back  in  feelings 
six  years.  He  was  just  where  he  had  been.  It  was 
all  to  do  over  again.  It  was  all  bitter  hard  on  the 
claim-agent.  Sometimes  the  hardest  task  that  can 
be  allotted  to  humanity  is  for  a  gentleman  to  remain 
a  gentleman. 


m 


Six  months  after  the  Elwood  wreck  the  second 
vice-president  of  the  road,  who  was  also  its  general 
attorney  and  the  head  of  its  legal  department — to 
whom,  indeed,  the  claim-agent  reported — sent  for 
that  young  man. 

Among  the  many  suits  which  had  been  brought 
against  the  road  growing  out  of  the  Elwood  wreck, 
the  most  dangerous  was  that  for  one  hundred  thou- 
sand dollars  for  the  death  of  Henry  Richardson. 
The  claim  was  supported  by  affidavits  of  his  earn- 
ing capacity,  income,  expectation  of  life,  and  so  on, 
which  made  it  most  formidable  and  difficult  to  meet 
and  the  best  lawyer  in  the  State  was  retained  by  the 
plaintiff,  suit  being  entered  in  the  name  of  the  dead 
man's  estate. 

From  the  viewpoint  of  the  road,  the  amount  sued 
for  was  preposterous.  In  turn,  they  had  offered  to 
settle  for  five  thousand  dollars,  but  the  proposition 


206  The  Records 


had  been  laughed  to  scorn  by  the  attorney  for  the 
estate.  How  the  suit  was  to  be'  combated  success- 
fully did  not  appear  to  the  general  attorney,  unless 
.some  pressure  could  be  brought  to  bear  on  the  plain- 
tiff or  his  counsel. 

The  general  attorney  did  not  immediately  disclose 
the  state  of  affairs  to  his  young  subordinate,  who 
had  only  that  morning  returned  from  an  extended 
trip  over  the  lines,  and  the  latter  was  in  entire  igno- 
rance of  the  fact  that  the  road  had  been  sued  for 
.such  an  amount.  Consequently,  he  was  quite  off  his 
guard;  and  when  the  general  attorney  asked  if  he  had 
not  in  his  safe  some  incriminating  letters  or  papers 
which  had  been  found  among  the  effects  of  the  late 
Henry  Richardson,  he  at  once  replied  in  the  affirma- 
tive. 

"  Ah !  I  thought  so,"  exclaimed  the  hard-headed 
old  veteran,  a  gleam  of  satisfaction  overspreading 
his  craggy  countenance.  "  The  superintendent  told 
me  about  them;  says  that  they're  bad,  indeed;  quite 
ruin  the  dead  man's  reputation  if  published,  and  so 
on.  Fetch  them  here  at  once,  and  let  me  have  a  look 
at  them,  please." 

Xow,  there  was  no  earthly  reason  why  the  general 
attorney  should  not  look  at  the  letters,  yet  the  claim- 
agent  felt  exceedingly  reluctant  to  put  them  in  his 
possession.  Yet,  just  because  he  really  could  think 
of  no  reason  for  refusing,  he  at  last  complied.  A 
glance  or  two  put  the  shrewd  old  lawyer  in  possession 
of  their  contents.  He  struck  the  bell  on  his  desk, 
and,  motioning  the  claim-agent  to  remain,  he  bade 


The  Wreck  and  the  Letters          207 

the  porter  admit  Judge  McChesney.  At  that  name, 
which  was  borne  by  the  most  distinguished  lawyer  in 
the  State,  unless  it  was  the  general  attorney  himself, 
the  claim-agent  started,  but  said  nothing. 

"  Ah,  good  morning,  Judge,"  said  the  general 
attorney,  briskly.  "  You  wanted  to  see  me  once 
more  about  the  Richardson  case,  I  believe,"  refer- 
ring to  a  note  on  the  table.  "  Well,  I  have  nothing 
to  add  to  our  previous  offer  of  settlement." 

"  Which  I  have  once  for  all  emphatically  de- 
clined," said  the  judge,  firmly.  "  I  am  empowered, 
however,  to  settle  for  seventy-five  thousand  dollars 
cash  in  hand.  This  is  our  lowest,  I  may  say  our  final 
proposition." 

"  Which  I  also  unhesitatingly  decline." 

"  And  you  will  do  nothing  more  than  the  paltry 
amount  you  have  already  offered?" 

"  Kothing  more.  Seventy-five  thousand  is  a  pre- 
posterous amount.  No  jury  would  ever  award  you 
a  tithe  of  that  sum." 

"  We'll  chance  that.  The  facts  are  plain,  the 
evidence  is  clear  and  convincing,  and  we  are  quite 
ready,  indeed,  anxious,  to  go  into  court  with  you." 

"  You  will  find  us  there  when  you  are,"  said  the 
general  attorney,  calmly. 

"  May  I  ask  if  this  suit  is  brought  for,  or  in  behalf 
of,  Mrs.  Richardson,  Judge  McChesney?"  inter- 
rupted the  claim-agent,  at  this  juncture. 

"  I  don't  mind  telling  you,"  answered  the  judge, 
after  a  reflective  pause,  "  that  she  is  only  mentioned 
in  the  will,  given  a  pittance  in  the  hope  of  avoiding 


208  The  Records 


a  contest,  I  presume,  though  I've  nothing  to  do  with 
that.  The  suit  is  brought  for  the  estate  at  the  in- 
stance of  the  deceased's  father,  who  is  also  his  exec- 
utor. Now,  Mr.  General  Attorney,  if  you  have  noth- 
ing further  to  say,  we  will  leave  the  decision  of  the 
case  to  the  courts.  I  am  sorry  that  we  are  unable 
to  agree." 

The  judge  hesitated  a  moment,  arose  and  took  his 
hat. 

"  Good  morning,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  turning 
toward  the  door. 

"  Oh,  Judge,"  said  the  general  attorney,  as  if  a 
thought  had  suddenly  struck  him,  "  a  moment, 
please.  Just  cast  your  eye  over  that." 

He  detached  a  letter  from  the  bundle  of  papers 
on  the  desk,  and  handed  it  to  the  judge.  The  latter 
fixed  'his  eyeglasses  on  his  nose,  and  scanned  the 
paper,  at  first  indifferently. 

"What's  this?"  he  said,  with  sudden  interest. 
"  Pah!  What  disgusting  rot!  What  is  it?  " 

"  That,"  said  the  general  attorney,  nonchalantly, 
"  is  one  of  a  bundle  of  letters  addressed,  as  I  learn 
from  others  in  the  package  here,  to  Mr.  Henry  Kich- 
ardson  by  one  Inez  Lancy,  a  woman  whose  reputa- 
tion is  as  unsavory  as  her  correspondence." 

Judge  McChesney  removed  his  hat  and  sat  down 
once  more. 

"  Are  there  others  like  it?  "  he  asked. 

He  had  quite  made  up  his  mind  to  destroy  it  then 
and  there  if  it  were  the  only  one  in  existence.  The 
general  attorney  selected  a  second  letter  at  random 


The  Wreck  and  the  Letters          209 

from  the  bunch,  and  passed  it  over.  He  knew  quite 
well  what  was  passing  in  the  other  man's  mind.  He 
would  have  done  it  himself  in  like  circumstances. 

"  Plenty,"  he  answered.  "  You  may  retain  those 
two,  if  you  like,  Judge ;  they  are  samples  of  the  rest. 
Each  one  worse  than  the  others.  We  don't  need 
em." 

"  And  you  propose ?  " 

"  Excuse  me,  we  propose  nothing." 

"  Why  then ?  " 

"  Oh,  your  client  was  such  a  fine  fellow,  we  really 
wanted  you  to  know  him.  That  stuff  would  make 
fine  reading  for  his  wife  and  family,  to  say  nothing 
of  the  general  public,  wouldn't  it  ?  " 

The  claim-agent  started  at  that,  but  neither  of  the 
two  men  was  paying  the  slightest  attention  to  him 
at  that  juncture.  Judge  McChesney  threw  the  two 
letters  down  on  the  desk  near  the  rest,  while  the 
general  attorney  gathered  them  carefully  up.  They 
were  of  no  use  to  the  judge  unless  he  could  get  them 
all.  The  general  attorney  handed  the  completed 
packet  to  the  claim-agent  again,  while  the  judge 
hemmed  violently,  and  took  off  his  eyeglasses  and 
wiped  them  carefully. 

"  Such  documents,"  he  began  at  last,  "  while 
highly  distressing  to  friends  and  relatives,  have  no 
legal  force  in  a  case  of  this  kind,  you  understand." 

"  My  dear  Judge,"  said  the  general  attorney,  in 
a  politely  remonstrative  voice,  "  legal  force  ?  I  am 
surprised  that  you  should  think  for  a  moment  that 
we  contemp " 


210  The  Kec&rds 


"Nonsense!"  interrupted  the  judge  vehemently. 
I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do.  We'll  settle  for  fifty 
thousand  and  the  letters." 

"  Five  thousand,"  said  the  general  attorney,  per- 
suasively. 

"See  you  damned  first!"  retorted  the  judge, 
seizing  his  hat  again. 

As  he  did  so,  he  cast  a  glance  at  the  claim-agent. 
That  young  man  was  standing  by  the  hard  coal  fire 
glowing  in  the  open  grate — it  was  midwinter  now — 
looking  intently  down  at  a  familiar  package  of  papers 
blazing  fiercely.  The  judge  stopped  again,  as  if  petri- 
fied. The  general  attorney  followed  his  opponent's 
gaze  with  a  glance  of  his  own.  As  he  took  in  the 
situation,  he  sprang  to  his  feet  with  an  oath,  and 
darted  toward  the  fireplace. 

"What's  that?"  he  cried  furiously. 

"  Those  letters,"  answered  the  claim-agent,  reso- 
lutely. He  was  very  pale,  but  quiet  and  determined. 

"  Did  you ?  "  began  the  general  attorney. 

"  I  dropped  them  there,"  answered  the  claim- 
agent. 

"  Accidentally? " 

The  claim-agent  shook  his  head. 

"  Designedly? " 

The  claim-agent  bowed. 

There  was  a  moment  of  fearful  silence.  Judgo 
McChesney  broke  it. 

"  You  won't  settle  for  seventy-five  thousand,  then? 
Well,  good  morning." 


The  Wreck  and  the  Letters          211 

They  could  hear  him  laughing  clear  down  the 
hall. 

"  Why  in  h — 1  did  you  do  that?'  roared  the  gen- 
eral attorney.  He  was  furious  with  anger.  "  That 
was  our  best  card.  "We'll  be  mulcted  in  terrific  dam- 
ages. That  would  have  held  him  off.  Why,  sir, 
why? " 

There  was  no  answer. 

The  general  attorney  stared  hard  at  the  claim- 
agent  for  a  little  space,  mastered  his  temper  slowly, 
and  spoke  more  quietly  at  last. 

"  That  will  cost  the  road  a  pretty  penny,  but  it 
will  cost  you  something  individually — your  posi- 
tion. Sit  down  at  that  desk  and  write  out  your  res- 
ignation at  once.  I  accept  it  in  advance." 

The  claim-agent  bowed,  sat  down,  scribbled  a  few 
moments,  blotted  the  paper,  glanced  over  it,  and  ten- 
dered it  to  the  general  attorney. 

"  Very  good,"  said  that  functionary,  briefly. 
"  JN"ow  go,  sir,  and  the  sooner  the  better." 

"  Before  I  go  I  have  something  to  say  on  my  own 
account,"  said  the  claim-agent,  standing  up  very 
straight  and  looking  his  superior  in  the  eye.  "  I 
burned  those  letters  because  I  would  not  be  a  party 
to  any  blackmailing  scheme  on  the  part  of  this  road. 
Either  we  are  liable  for  heavy  damages  or  we  are  not. 
I  am  not  running  this  road,  or  its  legal  department, 
but  I  won't  assist  at  any  unfairness  or  chicanery. 
In  the  long  run,  I  believe  that  even  a  railroad  will 
make  more  and  pay  better  by  being  strictly  honest 
than  by  any  sharp  practices  whatsoever.  Those  let- 


212  The  Records 


ters  have  no  connection  with  this  case,  on  its  merits. 
To  publish  them  or  to  get  them  in  as  evidence,  if 
it  could  have  been  done,  would  have  brought  dis- 
grace on  the  man's  wife  and  family,  and  it  would 
have  been  bad  policy,  besides." 

"  What  are  the  man's  wife  and  family  to  you, 
sir? "  coolly  asked  the  general  attorney,  who  was 
much  interested  in  the  speech  of  the  claim-agent. 

"His  family,  nothing;  his  wife,  much.  Since  you 
ask  about  my  private  affairs,  I'll  tell  you  that  I  knew 
her  when  she  was  a  young  girl.  I " 

"Oh!" 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  was  in  love  with  her  then,  and  I 
am  now,  and " 

"  And  you  hope  to  win  her  by  the  story  of  this 
noble  act  on  your  part,  do  you?  " 

"  I  don't  know  how  she  is  to  find  it  out  unless  you 
tell  her,"  returned  the  claim-agent,  hotly.  "  She 
did  not  love  her  husband,  and  she  did  love  me.  They 
were  separated  shortly  after  their  marriage,  into 
which  she  was  forced  by  her  parents.  But  she  thinks 
she  has  wronged  him  by  her  indifference,  and  she 
believes  he  was  faithful  to  her.  She  refused  me 
again  last  summer  because  she  wished  to  be  true  to 
his  memory.  I  could  have  given  her  the  letters 
then,  and,  by  proving  his  unworthiness,  perhaps  I 
might  have  won  her  for  myself." 

"  Why  didn't  you,  then?  " 

"  I  could  not." 

"  That's  twice  you  have  been  a  fool,"  said  the  older 


The  Wreck  and  the  Letters         213 

man,  contemptuously,  yet  with  a  certain  admiration 
in  his  mind  for  the  other. 

"  Maybe,  but  I  think  I'd  rather  be  a  fool  than*  a 
general  attorney,"  answered  the  claim-agent,  turn- 
ing to  go. 


IV 


It  was  not  easy  for .  him  to  get  anything  to  do 
after  his  sudden  and  summary  dismissal  from  the 
B.  S.  &  "W.  road,  but  the  claim-agent — claim-agent 
no  longer — at  last  succeeded  in  securing  a  temporary 
appointment,  pending  something  better,  in  one  of  the 
big  corporations  in  Chicago.  To  him  a  few  weeks 
later,  entered  a  messenger  with  a  statement  that 
there  was  a  lady  in  the  reception-room  who  desired 
to  see  him. 

Amy  Richardson  met  him  on  the  threshold. 

"  Is  there  any  place  where  we  can  be  quite  alone 
for  a  few  moments  without  being  interrupted?  "  she1 
asked,  so  soon  as  she  saw  him,  and  before  he  had 
time  to  say  a  word  even. 

The  president  of  the  company  was  fortunately 
absent  for  the  day,  and,  by  permission  of  the  man- 
ager, the  agitated  claim-agent  led  the  woman  he 
loved  into  the  luxurious  little  private  office,  where 
they  were  as  much  alone  as  if  they  had  been  ma- 
rooned on  a  desert  island.  She  seated  herself  ner- 
vously in  a  large,  capacious  arm-chair,  which  her 
tiny  figure  by  no  means  filled,  while  he  stood  erect 
before  her.  He  noticed  with  a  thrill  of  satisfaction 


214  The  Records 


that,  while  her  perfectly-fitting  gown  was  dark  in 
color  and  most  unobtrusive  in  style,  she  was  not  in 
mourning.  As  for  the  rest,  her  cheeks  were  flushed 
and  her  eyes  bright  with — was  it  satisfaction,  antici- 
pation, or  what?  Again,  he  could  not  tell.  Alto- 
gether she  looked,  he  thought  fatuously,  even 
younger  and  sweeter  than  she  had  looked  six  years 
before.  However,  he  only  stared  at  her,  saying 
nothing. 

"  Oh,  do  sit  down,  Frank,"  she  began  at  last.  "  It 
makes  me  nervous  to  see  you  standing  there.  That's 
better,"  she  continued,  as  he  obeyed  her  command. 
"  That  suit,  you  know,  about  my — about  Mr.  Rich- 
ardson— "  She  paused.  He  nodded.  "  It  was  set- 
tled last  week.  Had  you  heard?" 

"  No." 

"  The  plaintiff  compromised  for  ten  thousand  dol- 
lars." 

"  I  congratulate " 

"  Hush!  Do  you  think  I  would  touch  a  penny  of 
it,  or  of  his  money  in  any  shape  now?  No;  five 
thousand  went  to  the  estate  and  five  thousand 
to " 

She  paused  again. 

"  Not  to  you?  "  asked  the  man. 

"  To  a  certain  woman  named  Lancy !  " 

The  murder  was  out  in  spite  of  his  efforts,  then. 

"  I'm  sorry  you  heard,"  he  began,  vaguely,  feel- 
ing that  he  ought  to  say  something,  although,  to  be 
honest,  he  was  not  really  sorry  at  all. 

"  And  I  am  glad,  glad!"  she  cried,  impetuously. 


The  Wreck  and  the  Letters          215 

"  Oh,  the  low,  mean,  wretched  woman !  And  I 
thought  him  so  noble,  faithful,  too." 

"  I'm  sorry,"  said  the  claim-agent,  vaguely,  rising 
and  coming  toward  her  as  he  spoke. 

He  stopped  by  her  chair,  took  her  hand  in  his 
own,  and  she  did  not  withdraw  it.  She  turned  away 
her  head,  too,  but  he  could  see  the  color  mounting 
in  her  cheek,  mark  the  rapid  rise  and  fall  of  her 
breast.  The  man's  heart  was  beating  rapidly.  He 
scarce  knew  what  he  was  doing. 

"  And  I  know  about  you,  too,"  she  went  on,  more 
softly,  so  that  he  had  to  bend  very  low  over  her  to 
hear  her.  "  Judge  McChesney  told  me  how  noble 
and  self-sacrificing  you  had  been  with  those  wretched 
letters." 

"Did  he  say  that?" 

"  Well,  not  exactly.  He  told  me  the  facts,  the 
words  are  my  own." 

"  Thank  you.    It  was  nothing." 

"  It  was  the  finest  thing  I  ever  heard.  That 
woman  filed  a  lien  or  something  or  other  on  the  suit, 
you  know,  when  she  learned  it  was  being  brought; 
he  had  promised  her  money,  and  she  had  letters,  his 
letters — I  can  imagine  what  hers,  were  you  burned 
from  those  I  saw.  She  was  going  to  produce  them 
in  court,  so  Mr.  Richardson's  father  compromised 
the  suit,  and  she  got  half,  as  I  said.  No,  don't  inter- 
rupt me,"  she  went  on  hastily,  as  he  strove  to  speak. 
"  If  I  am  stopped  now  I'll  never  be  able  to  begin 
again.  After  I  heard  about  it  I  went  to  your  office 
to— to  see  you,  and  you  were  gone.  They  sent  me 


216  The  Records 


to  the  general  attorney.  They  said  he  was  an  aw- 
fully gruff  man,  but  I  found  him  a  dear.  He  was 
nice  to  me,  and  he  gave  me  your  address.  They  kept 
track  of  you,  you  see,  and  I  came  right  here  and — 
and " 

She  stopped,  drew  her  hand  away  from  him,  hid 
her  face  and  cowered  down  in  the  great  chair  before 
his  steady  gaze. 

"  Amy,"  he  said,  stooping  quite  low,  and  taking 
her  in  his  arms,  "  does  this  mean  that  you  will  let 
me  love  you  at  last  ?  " 

"  It  means  more  than  that,"  she  whispered. 

"  Oh,  Amy!  "  rapturously,  "  will  you  promise 
again  to  wait  for  me  until  I  get  a  permanent  position 
and  am  able  to ?  " 

"  I  won't  wait  another  minute,  Frank!  " 

"  Amy,  what  do  you  mean?  " 

11  I've  waited  long  enough.     I — we " 

"  Will  you  marry  me  now,  Amy?  " 

"  Whenever  you  like.    This  very  minute!  " 

It  was  some  time  before  any  coherent  conversation 
was  possible  or  necessary,  but  when  it  was,  she  drew 
back  a  little,  saying : 

"  Oh,  Frank^  dearest,  there  is  something  else.  The 
general  attorney  told  me  to  tell  you  to  come  back; 
since  the  suit  was  settled,  your  old  place  was  open 
for  you  with  an  increase  of  salary.  I  think  he  likes 

you." 

"  Hardly,  but " 

"  Wait,  that  isn't  all  yet.  He  told  me  to  tell  you, 
after  seeing  me,  that  you  weren't  such  a — a — he 
swore  awfully — fool,  after  all!  " 


Tenth  Record 

THE   ATHEIST* 


The  little  Bishop  was  one  of  the  most  tactful  of 
men.  Some  men  get  to  be  bishops — heaven  only 
knows  how — who  have  no  tact  whatever.  Their  lives 
thereafter  are  most  miserable,  and  their  dioceses  do 
not  especially  enjoy  the  situation  either.  Of  all  the 
places  in  which  a  man  may  find  himself  in  which 
are  made  insistent  demands  on  every  possible  qual- 
ity that  goes  to  promote  success,  that  of  a  bishop  is 
the  hardest  to  fill.  Especially  is  this  true  in 
a  Western  semi-missionary  diocese.  The  Bishop 
thereof  has  to  be  everything  that  every  other  leader 
in  secular  affairs  must  be — all  things  to  all  men  and 
the  same  to  all  women,  which  is  harder — to  win 
success,  and  in  addition  he  has  to  be  a  lot  more  things 
which  are  usually  considered  incompatible  with  suc- 
cess commanding  qualities. 

To  be  a  servant  of  God  and  a  leader  of  men  at  one 
and  the  same  time  is  to  solve  an  almost  unsolvable 
problem.  Opportunities  for  trying  the  experiment, 
in  the  episcopal  line  at  any  rate,  are  rare,  but  the 
statement  may  not  be  gainsaid.  Read  the  promises 

*  By  courtesy  of  "The  New  York  Herald." 


218  The  Records 


in  the  Ordinal,  which,  in  the  nature  of  things  being 
merely  general,  seem  to  cover  all  possible  contin- 
gencies that  may  arise. 

Tact,  therefore — that  subtle,  intangible  quality, 
which  is  so  unsusceptible  of  exact  definition  that 
everybody  explains  it  differently — is  one  of  the  most 
valuable  assets  to  bring  to  the  solution  of  an  epis- 
copal problem,  or  any  other  problem.  One  can  not  be 
tactful  with  the  subtleness  and  diplomacy  of  a  suc- 
cessful scoundrel,  either,  or  even  with  the  skill  and 
address  of  a  wise  and  prosperous  man  of  the  world, 
but  one  must  be  tactful  with  the  righteousness  and 
veracity  of  a  saint.  This  further  complicates  matters. 

Fools  rush  in  where  angels  fear  to  tread!  I  never 
could  understand  why  there  are  so  many  men  in 
the  Church  thirsting  for  a  chance  to  wear  the  mitre. 
Perhaps  in  the  fact  that  they  are  usually  very  young 
men  lies  the  explanation. 

The  Bishop  was  tactful  in  the  right  way,  and  a« 
he  was  a  man  of  brilliant  parts  he  usually  succeeded 
in  what  he  attempted  to  do.  The  rest  of  us  who 
worked  with  him  in  the  diocese,  with  the  rash  im- 
petuosity of  'youth  were  inclined  to  take  the  prob- 
lematical bull  by  the  horns  whenever  he  presented 
himself,  and  try  to  coerce  him  by  brute  strength 
rather  than  slip  a  ring  through  his  nose  and  lead  him 
gently  along,  filled  with  the  idea  that  he  was  only 
going  where  he  desired  and  doing  as  he  wished.  Con- 
sequently, we  usually  failed  in  delicate  operations, 
and  the  Bishop  had  to  come  to  our  rescue.  A  Bishop 
has  to  be  a  sort  of  moral  Macchiavelli,  anyway. 


The  Atheist  219 


For  instance,  once  there  was  a  man  who  was  on  the 
vestry  of  a  church  of  which  the  Bishop  was  rector 
before  he  was  made  Bishop.  He  was  not  a  religious 
man  in  any  sense — the  man,  not  the  Bishop,  of 
course.  It  does  not  take  much  religion  to  qualify  for 
a  vestryman,  sometimes.  They  had  but  a  limited 
field  to  draw  from  for  the  making  of  vestries  out 
there,  and  too  close  a  scrutiny  might  have  abolished 
most  of  the  vestries.  The  Bishop  found  him  on  the 
vestry  when  he  took  the  parish  and  he  had  remained 
there.  He  was  a  thorn  in  the  Bishop's  side,  for  he 
was  what  is  known  as  a  "  near^man."  ^Nobody  had 
succeeded  in  getting  him  very  far  away  from  one  of 
his  own  dollars.  That  was  a  most  unusual  qualifica- 
tion for  a  vestryman  who,  in  certain  schemes  of 
parish  administration,  is  expected,  with  his  fellows, 
to  pay  the  church  bills — his  election  by  his  fellow 
laborers  in  the  vineyard  being  mainly  for  that  spe- 
cific purpo&e. 

They  had  a  meeting  of  the  vestry  one  night,  and 
resolved  on  some  extensive  repairs  to  the  church, 
which  needed  it  badly.  The  man  in  question  was  ab- 
sent, which  he  never  would  have  been  if  he  had 
known  the  spending  of  money  was  in  contemplation. 
Possibly,  though  I  don't  say  so,  the  Bishop  had  taken 
advantage  of  his  absence  to  bring  up  the  matter. 
The  next  day  he  met  the  Bishop  upon  the  street  and 
berated  him  tremendously  for  presuming  to  urge  the 
spending  of  the  necessary  moneys.  The  language 
that  he  used  was  shocking.  As  he  became  more  and 
more  indignant  with  each  successive  mention  of  the 


220  The  Records 


amount,  he  scolded  the  Bishop  like  the  proverbial 
fishwife,  his  vituperation  passing  all  bounds. 

The  Bishop  had  a  great  deal  of  the  temper  of 
St.  Paul  in  him.  Alexander  the  Coppersmith 
would  have  fought  shy  of  him,  I  am  sure.  He  was 
aggressive  by  nature,  the  man  had  angered  him  ex- 
cessively, and  he  restrained  himself  on  the  public 
street  with  great  difficulty.  Finally  matters  reached 
such  a  point  that  he  only  saved  himself  from  break- 
ing out  by  turning  away. 

He  rushed  off  to  his  study,  sat  down,  and  wrote 
that  man  a  letter,  and  the  Bishop  was  a  master  with 
his  pen,  too.  The  document  was  entirely  adequate 
to  the  situation,  from  a  human  standpoint,  so  those 
of  us  thought  who  were  conversant  writh  the  facts, 
to  whom  he  read  it;  and  when  it  was  finished  the 
little  man  surveyed  it  with  much  pride,  in  which 
we  all  shared.  It  was  an  epistolary  gem — of  its 
kind. 

Then  he  reflected  that,  contrary  to  his  practice 
when  unusually  provoked,  he  had  not  read  a  portion 
of  Pusey's  famous  sermon  on  Patience,  so  he  hauled 
forth  the  well  worn  volume  from  his  pocket,  where 
he  kept  it  for  emergencies  of  this  kind,  and  read 
over  some  paragraphs  of  the  sermon  which  he  al- 
ready knew  by  heart.  He  came  to  the  conclusion  be- 
fore he  had  read  much  that  a  man  who  could  speak 
so  to  him,  and  on  the  public  street,  too,  could  not 
possibly  be  a  Christian,  and  that  he  should  not  heed 
what  he  had  said.  Under  the  circumstances  there 
was  something  else  to  be  done — something  better. 


The  Atheist  221 


He  tore  that  letter  up,  and  sat  down  and  wrote 
another,  never  mentioning  the  cause  of  the  dispute 
or  referring  to  the  man's  outrageous  conduct  in  the 
slightest  manner.  It  was  one  of  the  tenderest, 
sweetest  appeals  to  the  man  for  him  to  take  thought 
for  the  future  and  attend  to  the  salvation  of  his  soul 
— for  him  to  come  into  the  Church  and  be  a  real 
Christian  instead  of  a  mere  vestryman — that  we  ever 
listened  to. 

Most  everybody  hated  that  man  because  he  was 
selfish  and  quarrelsome,  and  he  knew  his  unpopu- 
larity, rather  gloried  in  it,  in  fact.  He  had  felt  a 
little  ashamed  of  his  conduct  after  the  Bishop  left 
him,  and  that  appeal,  coming  at  the  right  time, 
touched  his  heart.  No  one  had  ever  concerned  him- 
self greatly  about  his  soul  before.  The  letter  worked 
a  real  reformation.  He  presently  qualified  for  a 
higher  degree  in  the  church  membership  than  that  of 
a  vestryman,  and  that  'his  conversion  was  sincere  was 
evidenced  by  the  fact  that  he  made  the  Bishop  a 
standing  offer  that  he  would  give  one-tenth  of  any 
sum  that  he  might  desire  to  raise  for  any  church  pur- 
poses at  any  time!  That  was  much  for  him,  for 
where  his  treasure  was  there  was  his  heart  also. 
That  was  a  sample  of  the  Bishop's  tact.  Here  is 
another  : 

Once  he  had  to  raise  a  large  sum  of  money  by  a 
certain  date.  He  had  been  preaching  in  the  wealthy 
churches  of  an  Eastern  diocese  making  his  appeal. 
The  last  Sunday  before  the  appointed  day  he  found 
he  still  lacked  a  considerable  amount.  The  church 


222  The  Record* 


which  had  offered  him  hospitality  was  one  of  the 
wealthiest  in  the  city.  He  had  hoped  to  get  the 
required  sum  there.  It  rained — oh,  how  it  did  pour 
that  day,  a  regular  deluge.  There  were  perhaps 
three  dozen  people  in  the  church.  His  heart  sank. 

He  almost  felt  it  would  be  of  no  use  for  him  to 
make  his  appeal  to  that  handful,  yet  remembering 
the  advice  of  one  of  his  homely  Western  friends  to 
"  Allus  give  'em  the  best  ye've  got  in  the  shop,  no 
matter  whatsomever,  Eight  Rever'nd,"  he  did  his 
very  best.  He  appealed  to  the  faithful  two  score  as 
if  they  had  been  two  thousand.  After  the  service 
one  man  invited  him  to  dinner,  and  after  dinner  he 
took  him  into  his  library,  drew  out  a  check  book,  and 
said,  "  I'll  make  up  the  balance.  How  much  did 
you  say  you  needed?" 

"  Wait,"  said  the  Bishop,  after  thanking  the  man 
for  his  generous  offer,  "  there  yet  remain  two  or 
three  days  before  the  time  limit  expires.  It  is  prob- 
able that  I  may  receive  sums  of  money  from  other 
sources  which  will  prevent  me  from  calling  upon  you 
for  so  much  as  I  need  now,  and  I  can  save  you  some- 
thing." ; 

"  Very  well,"  replied  the  man;  "  come  around  on 
the  day  before." 

The  required  sum  had  diminshed  by  more  than 
one-half  by  belated  offerings,  and  it  was  with  much 
pride  that  the  Bishop  told  his  new  friend  how  much 
less  he  should  require  from  him.  The  man  wrote  a 
check  for  double  the  amount  and  handed  it  to  the 
Bishop,  with  the  remark  that  it  was  the  first  time 


The  Atheist  223 


anybody  asking  for  money  for  religious  purposes 
had  ever  endeavored  to  save  him  a  penny,  and  he 
appreciated  it  so  much  that  he  gave  him  twice  as 
much  as  he  asked  for,  and,  what  was  better  still, 
told  him  to  come  again.  He  was  a  man  to  be  trusted 
not  to  appeal  for  an  unworthy  object. 

One  time  the  wardenship  of  a  certain  divinity 
school  became  vacant.  The  Bishop  was  much  in- 
terested in  the  school  and  deemed  the  selection  of 
a  new  warden  to  be  of  great  importance.  Among 
the  trustees  was  a  party  which,  by  ecclesiastical  bias, 
naturally  antagonized  anything  ^and  everything  the 
Bishop  put  forth.  The  Bishop  had  a  candidate  to 
whom  he  had  pledged  such  trustees  as  he  could  in- 
fluence, not  quite  a  majority.  The  other  side,  it  was 
learned,  had  no  candidate,  and  appeared  to  have  no 
definite  plan  except  to  beat  the  Bishop. 

The  Bishop's  heart  was  set  upon  getting  Dr.  Sil- 
ver, perhaps  the  best  man  that  could  be  selected. 
When  the  meeting  was  held  for  the  purpose  of  elec- 
tion and  nominations  were  declared  in  order,  the 
Bishop  got  up  and  in  a  very  emphatic  manner  put 
forth  some  reasons,  which  were  exceedingly  weak, 
of  course,  why  Dr.  Silver  should  not  be  nominated 
and  elected.  The  other  party  thereupon  immediately 
put  the  man  in  nomination,  and  he  was  elected 
unanimously,  much  to  their  surprise. 

"  You  see,"  said  the  Bishop  afterward,  "  I  not 
only  wanted  to  have  the  doctor  elected,  but  I  also 
wanted  everybody  committed  to  support  him." 

We  used  to  make  a  great  deal  of  fun  of  the  Bishop 


224  The  Records 


for  this  transaction.  Yes,  whatever  the  old  man 
set  his  heart  upon  he  was  generally  able  to  achieve. 
He  only  failed  in  one  thing,  but  somebody  else  suc- 
ceeded there  in  the  strangest  way. 

n 

There  was  a  woman  in  the  diocese  named  Norris. 
Probably  there  were  many  women  named  Norris, 
but  this  one  was  distinguished  from  the  others  be- 
cause she  was  that  rare  thing  among  women,  an 
atheist.  Stranger  still,  her  husband  was  a  devout 
churchman,  and  her  course  was  a  lasting  grief  to  him. 
He  never  lost  his  faith,  however — faith  that  it  would 
come  right  in  the  end,  that  is,  and  sure  enough  it  did. 
She  was  a  brilliant  woman  and  had  been  in  early  days 
a  zealous  Christian,  but  something  had  shattered  her 
faith;  some  calamity,  some  trial  to  which  she  had 
been  unequal,  had  utterly  destroyed  her  religion. 

In  her  heart,  Mrs.  Morris  not  only  denied  the  exist- 
ence of  God,  but  she  became  a  zealous  propagandist 
of  her  lack  of  belief.  She  was  ready  to  dispute  with 
any  one  upon  the  subject,  and  liked  nothing  better 
than  to/  argue  with  "  Professing  Christians,"  espe- 
cially the  clergy.  I  have  generally  found  the  clergy 
fond  of  argument,  especially  if  they  can  do  it  all 
themselves.  They  do  not  like  to  be  talked  back  to. 
As  she  was  a  woman  of  keen  intellect  and  great  men- 
tal power,  easily  surpassing  many  of  the  clergy  in 
that,  and  as  she  had  studied  the  arguments  for  her 
side  of  the  proposition,  she  usually  got  the  better  of 
her  reverend  disputants  in  discussions. 


The  Atheist  225 


There  was  one,  however,  with  whom  she  could 
not  argue,  and  that  was  the  Bishop.  There  were 
two  reasons,  first,  because  she  was  not  able  enough 
to  sustain  a  controversy  with  a  man  of  his  calibre 
and  acumen,  and,  second,  because  after  some  few 
discussions  he  would  no  longer  argue  with  her. 
Realizing  that  it  was  not  a  case  for  argument,  he  cast 
about  in  his  mind  for  other  means  of  converting  her, 
but  vainly.  He  tried  to  influence  her  in  every  pos- 
sible personal  way  short  of  controversy.  We  used  to 
think  sometimes  that  he  shook  her  confident  assur- 
ance by  his  very  being,  but  she  naver  admitted  it. 

Among  the  clergymen  of  the  city  there  was  a 
Churchman  so  high  that  he  was  an  extremist.  The 
atmosphere  of  that  section  of  the  country  was  not 
congenial  to  the  growth  of  such  an  exotic,  and  he 
languished,  or  his  parish  did,  which  was  worse.  How 
he  came  there  and  why  he  stayed  there  we  never 
could  find  out.  But  there  he  was,  and  there  he 
stayed  in  spite  of  everything. 

Your  extreme  High  Churchman,  yorr  elaborate 
ritualist,  is  either  a  fat  autocrat  or  a  lean  martyr. 
A  few,  a  very  few,  of  them  in  the  great  cities  are 
the  popes  of  large  congregations  which  they  have 
attracted  to  them  by  their  talents  and  by  their  self- 
sacrifice.  Most  of  them,  especially  in  small  towns 
or  country  dioceses,  are  the  slaves  of  their  narrow 
and  rigid  opinions.  Many  of  these  last — and  I  bear 
testimony  gladly  to  their  sincerity  and  devotion — are 
martyrs.  I  know  many  men  who  suffer  hardships 
almost  incredible  in  this  day,  for  that  they  believe — 


226  The  Records 


men  of  talent  and  ability  who  could  fill  acceptably 
larger  places,  where  they  would  not  only  be  more 
useful  but  more  comfortable,  but  who  are  quite  will- 
ing, nay,  anxious,  to  sacrifice  themselves  for  their 
convictions.  I  pity  them,  but  I  honor  them.  Many 
a  black  cassock  covers  a  sick,  worn,  hungry,  chilly 
body  when  that  body  encloses  the  soul  of  an  ex- 
treme High  Churchman.  To  be  extreme  in  anything 
is  to  invite  martyrdom  at  best. 

The  Rev.  Littleton  Talbot  was  a  martyr.  This 
kind  is  always  a  celibate,  and  as  he  had  no  wife  in 
whom  to  confide,  no  one,  not  even  the  Bishop,  who 
generally  knew  everything,  realized  on  what  a  bare 
pittance  he  subsisted,  and  to  what  desperate  straits 
he  was  reduced  in  the  parish  of  St.  Mary  the  Most 
Blessed  Virgin  Mother — the  name  was  almost  bigger 
than  the  parish.  He  had  a  stipend  from  the  Mis- 
sionary Board,  which  was  always  promptly  paid, 
even  if,  as  was  often  the  case,  the  Bishop  had  to 
pay  it  himself  out  of  his  own  meagre  and  intermit- 
tent salary.  But  that  stipend  went  to  the  poor,  and 
if  anything  was  left  it  went  to  the  ornaments  and 
adornments  of  the  church,  which  was  his  passion. 
He  would  rather  have  a  new  cope  than  a  warm  coat ; 
he  preferred  incense  to  a  good  fire,  and  who  shall 
fault  him? 

Chance  threw  him  in  the  society  of  Mrs.  Nor- 
ris.  Here  was  a  f  oeman  worthy  of  his  steel.  He 
would  convert  her.  He  spoke  to  the  Bishop  about 
it,  and  the  Bishop  told  him  to  go  ahead,  perhaps 
partly  because  it  was  difficult  to  deny  him.  There 


The  Atheist  227 


the  Bishop  made  one  of  his  rare  mistakes.  He  had 
to  make  a  mistake"  once  in  a  while  or  he  would  not 
have  been  human.  Littleton  Talbot  was  about  as 
unadapted  and  ill-equipped  for  that  purpose  as  one 
could  well  conceive.  He  had  a  zeal  for  God,  but 
alas!  not  according  to  knowledge.  Most  zeal  for 
God  is  of  that  kind.  He  plunged  blindly  and  came 
to  grief.  That,  however,  neither  the  Bishop  nor  any 
one  could  have  expected. 

The  woman  took  a  cruel  delight  in  torturing  the 
man.  She  vitiated  all  his  convictions,  shattered  all 
his  contentions,  and  he  was  just  bright  enough  to 
see  the  point  of  her  arguments  without  being  bright 
enough  to  find  out  where  she  was  weak.  Personally 
as  well,  for  she  was  a  woman  and  beautiful,  she  daz- 
zled him.  To  convert  her  he  came  often  to  see  her. 

He  became  more  and  more  unsettled  in  his  belief 
and  practices.  She  parted  him  from  his  moorings, 
mental,  spiritual  and  physical.  He  had  no  con- 
fidants and  he  had  to  fight  it  out  alone.  It  is  not 
good  for  a  man  to  be  alone  under  such  circumstances, 
if  ever.  He  went  through  the  mechanical  round  of 
his  duties,  observing  his  saints'  days,  his  fasts  and 
his  vigils,  his  matins,  his  lauds  and  so  on;  intoning 
his  services,  swinging  his  censers,  wearing  his  copes, 
as  he  had  always  done;  but  his  heart  went  out  of  it 
all.  The  savor  and  sweetness  of  it  were  gone  for 
him. 

He  was  thin,  pale,  emaciated  before;  he  became  a 
nervous  wreck.  Like  the  moth  fluttering  about  the 
candle,  he  went  back  again  and  again  to  that  woman. 


228  The  Records 


He  heard  over  and  over  what  she  had  to  say.  Her 
keen,  clever,  brilliant  sentences  permeated  his  brain. 
By  and  by  he  fell — and  great  was  the  fall  of  him! 
He  was  absolutely  and  utterly  conquered,  beaten, 
broken,  ruined,  carried  away. 

He  came  to  her  house  the  day  before  Christmas 
with  blasphemy  on  his  lips.  With  all  hei;  clever  in- 
tuition she  had  never  dreamed  of  what  was  passing 
in  the  man's  mind.  It  had  been  a  sport,  a  game  to 
her,  in  which  she  had  not  realized  the  torture  she 
had  inflicted  nor  the  consequences  of  her  playing. 
She  was  horrified  when  she  saw  the  ruin  she  had 
effected.  No  one  had  ever  questioned  her  integrity, 
her  honesty,  her  purity  before.  She  had  preserved 
these  in  spite  of  her  atheism,  but  when  Talbot's 
religion  was  gone  everything  was  gone  from  him. 
The  man  became  a  moral  as  well  as  an  intellectual 
wreck,  and  on  the  heels  of  his  blasphemy  he  poured 
forth  a  declaration  of  frantic  passion  for  her  that 
appalled  the  woman.  Thinking  him  almost  sexless, 
as  it  were,  she  had  indulged  him  perhaps  a  little 
imprudently,  but  in  all  innocence,  and  he  now  pre- 
sumed to  ask  her  to  leave  her  husband  and  fly  with 
him. 

She  looked  into  the  black  void  where  his  own  soul 
had  been  and  shrunk  aghast.  Even  the  shallowest 
soul  leaves  a  fearful  abyss  when  it  is  gone.  She  was 
not  only  horrified  but  outraged  in  every  fibre  of  her 
being,  yet  she  was  too  able,  too  just  a  woman  not 
to  realize  that  she  had  only  herself  to  blame.  A 
woman  less  strong  would  have  driven  him  from  her 


The  Atheist  229 


with  contempt,  but  she  pitied  him.  Even  a  poor  life 
ruined  is  a  sad  spectacle,  and  his  own  had  been  a 
good  one.  She  told  him  with  a  firmness  that  even  he 
could  recognize  that  he  had  misunderstood  her,  that 
he  had  been  mistaken;  and  then  she  bade  him  see  her 
no  more. 

There  was  another  admonition  upon  her  lips  as 
he  staggered  out  of  her  presence,  cursing  her  for 
having  brought  this  shipwreck  and  misery  upon  him, 
but  a  lingering  pride  restrained  her  in  silence.  When 
she  was  alone  she  sat  down  to  consider  and  reflect 
on  the  situation.  What  was  this  man  without  God? 
What  was  any  human  being  without  the  Divine 
Presence?  She  had  taken  God  from  this  man's  life, 
she  had  robbed  this  man's  soul  of  faith  and  hope, 
she  had  shattered  his  belief,  she  had  given  him  noth- 
ing in  place  of  these  things.  She  had  ruined  him. 

What  was  her  own  situation?  Her  soul  was  re- 
volted that  he  had  dared — dared!  Yet  what  else 
could  she  expect  under  the  circumstances?  She  had 
thrust  God  out  of  her  own  life.  Would  there  be 
no  result  to  her  from  that  dispossession?  She  saw 
herself  in  this  moral  outcast  and  shuddered  at  the 
sight.  What  was  the  fate  before  her?  She  hid  her 
face  in  her  hands  and  at  last  realized  what  she  had 
denied. 

That  evening  she  came  to  the  Bishop's  study,  pale, 
distraught,  anguished,  torn  in  body  and  soul.  Her 
feelings  were  evidenced  in  her  face  as  she  told  the 
Bishop  what  had  happened.  He  was  wise  enough — 
oh,  tactful  little  Bishop! — to  allow  her  to  tell  her 


230  The  Records 


story  without  a  word  of  interruption,  yet  he  listened 
with  a  heart  beating  with  hope  as  it  had  not  beat 
before.  And  with  the  hope  there  was  mingled  a 
great  consternation,  because  he  had  not  foreseen  the 
possibility  of  such  a  catastrophe  to  the  poor  weakling 
who  had  failed,  and  yet — the  Bishop  could  not  get 
this  out  of  his  mind — who  had  perhaps  succeeded 
after  all.  When  she  had  finished  and  told  him  how, 
in  the  silence  in  which  she  had  been  left,  there  had 
come  to  her  a  vision,  the  Bishop  expected  her  to  do 
what  she  did,  put  her  head  down  upon  her  hands  and 
give  way.  The  iron  constraint  in  whic'h  she  had 
spoken  vanished,  and  the  poor  woman  sobbed  out: 
"  Oh,  my  God!  my  God!  What  must  I  do?  " 
It  was  the  atheist  who  was  praying.  The  old  man 
laid  his  hand  upon  her  head  and  spoke  such  words  as 
carried  comfort  and  peace  to  her  soul.  She  had 
indeed  seen  a  heavenly  vision,  and,  as  no  one  can 
look  upon  such  a  vision  and  remain  the  same,  she 
had  been  changed — born  again. 

Ah,"  murmured  the  Bishop  to  himself  after  she 
had  left  him,  as  he  picked  up  his  hat  and  prepared 
to  go  in  search  of  that  which  was  gone  astray,  "  the 
woman  has  been  brought  to  Christ  again.  Perhaps 
in  no  other  way  could  it  have  been  brought  about. 
Now  for  poor  Talbot.  It  was  my  fault.  I  must 
win  him  back!  Then  there  will  be  no  one  lost,  no 
one!" 


"  My  God  !    My  God  ! 

What  must  I  do?"— Page  230 


The  Atheist  231 


ra 


It  was  snowing  and  blowing  that  night  as  only  it 
can  snow  and  blow  out  West.  It  would  have  been 
called  a  blizzard  in  the  East,  but  out  there  nobody 
minded  it  especially.  The  little  Bishop,  who  had 
faced  many  a  storm  in  life,  both  of  wind  and  weather 
and  of  heart  and  soul,  staggered  along  in  spite  of 
the  buffeting  of  the  wind  and  the  drive  of  the  snow, 
scarcely  giving  a  thought  to  either.  The  shepherd 
was  after  a  sheep  that  had  wandered  from  the  fold 
that  Christmas  Eve.  The  "  care  of  all  the  churches  " 
is  a  heavy  burden  and  the  phrase  is  very  comprehen- 
sive. It  includes  the  care  of  all  the  weak,  feeble 
under  shepherds  of  the  several  flocks  as  well,  and  one 
of  them  had  gone  sadly  astray  on  this  bitter  night. 

The  Bishop's  way  led  him  to  the  poorer  quarters 
of  the  town.  On  one  of  the  side  streets  he  stopped 
before  a  poor  little  weather-beaten  structure.  Yel- 
low letters  on  a  black  signboard,  surmounted  by  a  big 
cross,  seen  dimly  in  the  driving  snow  and  the  growing 
darkness,  informed  the  few  passers  by  that  it  was  the 
Church  of  St.  Mary  the  Most  Blessed  Virgin  Mother. 
The  Bishop  had  an  idea  that  he  would  find  Talbot 
there. 

There  were  lights  in  the  windows  of  the  church, 
indicating  that  it  was  occupied.  He  walked  to  the 
door  and  opened  it.  A  few  people  were  engaged  in 
putting  up  Christmas  greens  and  other  decorations 
preparatory  for  to-morrow's  services.  Talbot  was 


232  The  Records 


not  there.  Inquiry  developed  the  fact  that  he  had 
not  been  there,  although  he  had  agreed  to  meet  the 
guild  to  superintend  their  preparations.  The  Bishop 
chatted  a  moment  or  two  and  then  went  out.  In- 
stead of  leaving  the  churchyard  he  turned  and 
ploughed  his  way  through  the  snow  to  the  chancel 
end  of  the  building.  Why  he  did  this  he  could  not 
tell,  but  all  his  life  he  rejoiced  that  he  had  followed 
his  strange  impulse  without  hesitation.  A  black 
figure  with  outstretched  arms  lay  on  the  ground  like 
a  cross,  with  head  toward  the  altar.  It  was  Talbot. 

The  Bishop  knelt  down  and  put  his  arms  around 
the  man  and  spoke  to  him.  The  weather  was  very 
cold,  but  Talbot  was  burning  hot. 

"  I  have  sinned  against  the  Lord !  "  he  moaned 
bitterly,  unconsciously  using  the  ancient  phrase. 
"My  God!  "  he  cried,  "let  me  die!  I  am  a  false 
priest!  A  lost  man!  I  wish  I  had  died  before " 

The  Bishop  would  have  given  the  world  to  say, 
in  the  words  of  the  prophet,  "  The  Lord  hath  also 
put  away  thy  sin,  thou  shalt  not  die,"  but  the  Bishop 
was  an  honest  man  and  a  truthful,  and  he  could  not 
say  that — yet.  There  was  one  thing  he  could  say, 
however,  and  that  he  did. 

"  My  son,"  said  the  old  man,  gently  and  tenderly, 
"  the  fault  is  mine.  I  allowed  you  to  undertake  a 
task  beyond  your  human  strength,  and  the  devil  got 
hold  of  you,  but  with  God's  help  we  will  beat  him 
yet.  And — and  you  succeeded  after  all.  She  came 
to  my  house  an  hour  ago.  She  is  a  changed  woman. 
Come!" 


The  Atheist  233 


He  was  not  a  master  that  he  should  say  "  Go !  " 
— only  a  human  follower,  so  he  changed  the  great 
injunction  to  a  tender  appeal. 

"  Come  with  me,"  he  added,  "  and  sin  no  more." 

That  was  why  the  Bishop  took  Talbot's  services  at 
the  Church  of  St.  Mary  the  Most  Blessed  Virgin 
Mother  on  Christmas  Day.  And  that  was  why  Mrs. 
Morris  went  there  to  meet  the  new  born  King  rather 
than  elsewhere,  and  as  the  Bishop's  glance  fell  upon 
her  during  the  services  he  caught  himself  wondering 
whether  anything  else  than  so  great  a  catastrophe 
could  have  brought  back  the  atheist's  vanished  faith. 

"  After  all,"  mused  the  Bishop  again,  "  when  I 
have  set  poor  Talbot  in  the  right  way  again  every- 
thing will  have  been  gained." 


Eleventh  Record 

THE   IMPULSES   OF    ELEANOR* 


The  artistic  temperament  is  not  usually  conjoined 
with  the  creative  faculty.  A  man  may  be  an  excel- 
lent editor — not  in  the  newspaper  sense — without 
ability  to  write  a  line.  The  soul  may  be  full  of  music 
with  no  power  of  expression.  A  love  of  the  beau- 
tiful may  permeate  the  mind  without  a  corresponding 
ability  to  show  it  forth. 

Eleanor  Drayton  loved  the  beautiful — similia 
similibus! — but  had  no  faculty  of  expression  cor- 
responding to  her  feeling.  She  was  neither  a  poet, 
nor  a  painter,  nor  a  musician,  although  that  she  was 
not  all  three  was  due  to  no  lack  of  endeavor.  Had 
her  ability  equaled  her  ambition  she  would  have 
been  a  feminine  Crichton.  As  it  was  she  was  only 
a  remarkably  pretty  girl,  who  wrote  execrable  poetry, 
painted  atrocious  pictures  and  played  indifferently. 

It  is  astonishing  that  with  her  real  appreciation  of 
the  truly  beautiful,  external  to  herself,  she  should 
not  have  discovered,  long  since,  her  own  limitations; 
but  such  discoveries  are,  as  a  rule,  the  results  of 
experience.  There  is  a  merciful — or  is  it  a  merciless? 

*  By  courtesy  of  "  The  Twentieth  Century  Home." 


236  The  Records 


— providence  which  keeps  us  in  ignorance  of  our 
own  inabilities  until  some  crushing  crisis  lays  the 
edifice  constructed  by  our  self-conceit  in  ruins  at 
our  feet.  Age,  like  adversity,  hath  its  uses,  although 
some  rare  mortals  there  be  whose  conceit  in  their 
performances  even  age  can  not  wither  nor  custom 
stale.  Eleanor  Drayton  was  young  enough,  however, 
for  all  this  to  be  in  the  future.  What  she  would  be 
at  the  grand  climacteric  was  yet  to  be  determined. 

There  are  abilities  so  great  that  they  dispense 
with  the  ordinary  means  of  achievement.  Strictly 
speaking,  there  is  no  such  thing  as  a  self-made  man, 
or  woman,  but  there  are  those  to  whom  the  definition 
applies  with  considerable  appositeness.  Talent  sup- 
plies experience. 

Eleanor  Drayton  was  not  that  kind  of  a  girl,  and 
it  is  only  fair  to  say  that  she  had  been  totally  without 
the  advantages  that  a  fine  environment  may  bestow. 
Otherwise  she  might  have  painted  better  pictures — 
at  least  she  would  have  learned  the  rudiments  of 
drawing;  she  might  have  written  better  poetry — at 
least  she  would  have  known  prosody,  syntax,  ver- 
sification, and  rhythm;  she  might  have  played  more 
acceptably — at  least  she  could  have  mastered  the 
art  of  fingering  and  surmounted  the  ordinary  diffi- 
culties of  the  piano;  she  might  even  have  been  taught 
to  expand  her  voice,  which  was  beautiful  in  conver- 
sation, into  at  least  acceptable  eong.  All  these 
things  might  have  happened  if  she  had  enjoyed  the 
privilege  of  competent  instruction  upon  her  natural 
basis  of  elegance  and  refinement. 


The  Impulses  of  Eleanor  237 

But  Eleanor  Drayton  lacked  everything  but  am- 
bition. Great  are  the  sins  and  manifold  the  virtues 
of  ambition;  but  as  it  will  not  inherently  damn,  so 
it  will  not  of  itself  save. 

Eleanor  Drayton  saw  the  light,  blinking  painfully 
at  it  as  humanity  does  more  or  less  through  life  be  it 
ever  so  long,  some  twenty  years  before  in  a  rude  little 
farmhouse  on  the  slope  of  one  of  the  magnificent 
mountains  of  northern  New  York,  where  her  father 
managed  to  eke  out  a  precarious  living  from  the  nar- 
row confines  of  the  rocky,  sterile  holding  he  called 
his  own.  As  for  her  mother,  she  stopped  blinking 
at  the  light  when  Eleanor  came.  It  was  a  habit 
of  mothers,  most  inconsiderate  of  the  young  aspi- 
rant for  womanhood.  Her  love  of  the  beautiful,  her 
desire  to  produce  it,  had  fallen  upon  her  as  an  heri- 
tage from  that  mother,  whose  natural  capacities  had 
been  dwarfed  and  thwarted  by  the  hard  circum- 
stances of  her  condition.  Her  inability  to  express 
her  imagination  Eleanor  got  naturally  enough  from 
her  practical,  prosaic  farmer-father,  a  grubber  in  the 
stony  field  whence,  in  the  sweat  of  his  face,  he 
wrested  daily  bread. 

There  was  something  fine  in  Abraham  Drayton, 
however,  or  Eleanor's  mother  would  never  have 
married  him,  and,  so  far  as  he  could,  he  strove  to 
stimulate  his  only  child  to  attempt  to  express  what 
they  both  believed  to  be  in  her.  He  never  remarried. 
He  brought  up  his  little  daughter  in  the  loneliness 
of  the  farm  in  the  valley  backed  by  the  mountains 
and  fronted  by  the  lakelet,  doing  by  her  the  best  he 


238  The  Records 


could.  She  was  ignorant  of  even  the  rudiments  of  the 
things  she  loved,  yet  there  was  nothing  she  did  not 
attempt.  Self-taught,  she  picked  out  simple  music  on 
the  old-fashioned  melodeon;  she  pictured  the  moun- 
tains and  hills  about  her,  never  having  taken  a  lesson 
in  drawing;  she  wrote  verses  whose  sentiments  were 
great,  but  which  halted  lamely  on  different  feet  in 
every  line.  Her  father  thought  all  beautiful,  so 
much  so  that  he  suggested  at  last  that  she  go  from 
the  peaceful,  sequestered  valley  in  which  the  even 
course  of  her  life  had  been  spent,  into  the  great 
world  to  storm  the  high  places  of  its  approval  with 
those  evidences  of  her  talents. 

New  York  City  was  then,  as  now,  the  goal  of 
every  human  ambition.  To  New  York  with  her 
pictures  and  her  poetry  came  Eleanor  Drayton.  Her 
father,  as  unsophisticated  as  his  daughter  was  inno- 
cent, allowed  her  to  go  alone.  After  she  had  been 
there  six  months,  her  disillusionment  was  nearly 
completed.  Her  father  had  provided  for  her  liber- 
ally for  a  man  in  his  circumstances,  and  she  at  last 
realized  that  she  had  almost  reached  the  end  of  his 
lifetime  of  saving.  Her  probation  days  were  over. 
The  high  places  loomed  large  before  her,  but  she  had 
begun  to  feel  that  she  could  never  scale  them.  She 
knew  now  that  her  poetry  was  below  contempt,  that 
her  hours  on  the  melodeon  had  brought  forth  noth- 
ing. She  fought  bitterly  but  unavailingly  against  a 
growing  suspicion  that  the  pictures  were  on  a  par 
with  the  rest. 

She  had  lived  with  most  scrupulous  economy  in 


The  Impulses  of  Eleanor  239 

the  humblest  way,  yet  she  had  seen  much  although 
she  had  learned  little.  It  takes  much  to  impress  even 
minor  conclusions  on  inexperience.  Contrary  to 
custom,  for  they  usually  cleave  together,  although 
she  had  lost  most  of  her  illusions,  she  still  preserved 
her  innocence.  With  innocence  and  beauty,  although 
she  did  not  realize  it,  much  may  be  accomplished. 

Her  life,  as  she  had  planned  it,  was  a  failure.  She 
would  have  to  build  it  again  on  new  lines.  What 
these  lines  were,  in  what  direction  they  ran,  she  could 
not  foresee.  At  any  rate,  it  was  a  good  thing  for 
her  that  her  disillusionment  had  come  when  she  was 
young  and  while  there  was  time  for  something  else. 

She  made  up  her  mind  to  go  back  to  the  farm  and, 
ceasing  to  be  a  dreamer,  begin  to  be  a  woman.  She 
thought,  with  increasing  pain,  how  inefficient  she  had 
been  in  the  daily  duties  of  womankind  upon  the 
farm.  She  would  banish  the  arts  and  graces  from 
her  dreams,  and  begin  with  the  practical  side  of  life 
when  she  got  back.  She  would  make  up  by  love  and 
care  for  the  disappointment  at  her  non-success  that 
her  father  would  feel. 

'Twas  a  brave  resolution,  but  if  ever  a  soul  craved 
and  thirsted  for  the  beauties,  the  refinements,  and 
the  elegancies  of  life  which  were  freely  displayed 
about  it,  it  was  the  soul  of  Eleanor  Drayton. 

Strange  to  say,  considering  her  poverty  of  expres- 
sion, there  was  one  thing  she  had  in  addition  to  her 
beauty  and  innocence  which  was  a  fit  setting  for  its 
rarity  and  its  purity,  and  that  was  good  taste  in  dress 
— that  excellent,  but  rare,  thing  in  woman!  She 


240  The  Records 


had  one  faculty,  too,  with  her  needle,  and  she  had 
made  herself  good-looking  clothes.  She  wore  them 
with  a  certain  style  which  was  surprising,  considering 
her  origin  and  environment.  Her  shapely  hands  were 
well-gloved,  her  feet  well-booted. 

On  the  evening  before  her  departure  she  had  ac- 
companied a  young  art  student  to  the  Waldorf, 
where  her  friend  was  to  call  on  a  hoped-for  patron. 
Eleanor  had  agreed  to  wait  for  her  friend  in  the 
room  opening  from  the  corridor  which  gives  entrance 
to  the  dining-room,  irreverently  known  as  "  Peacock 
Alley."  She  liked  to  sit  and  watch  the  procession  of 
gorgeously  and  beautifully  attired  women  with  their 
meek  male  attendants,  whom  sometimes  it  would  have 
been  difficult  to  differentiate  from  the  haughty  trib- 
ute-taking waiters,  had  it  not  been  for  their  impe- 
rious feminine  companions. 

Whether  it  was  fashionable  or  not  she  could  not 
tell.  Whether  there  was  culture  and  refinement  and 
ability  to  match  the  display  was  a  problem  that  her 
inexperience  could  hardly  solve,  although  she  had 
her  suspicions;  but  that  it  was  beautiful  no  one 
could  deny. 

She  had  the  requisite  imagination  for  any  mental 
achievement,  and  she  was  dreaming  a  strange  dream 
there,  on  this  last  night  before  her  departure.  She 
was  rudely  awakened  from  it  by  the  sharp  voice  of  a 
bell-boy,  self-importantly  threading  his  way  through 
the  chairs  crowded  with  observers.  She  had  heard 
these  bell-boys  again  and  again,  but  this  one  attracted 
her  particularly,  because  he  was  calling  her  name — 


The  Impulses  of  Eleanor  241 

more  than  that,  her  number.     She  lived  in  a  little 
hall  bedroom  in  a  flat  at  282  East  Thirty-third  Street. 

"Miss  Drayton,  ~No.  282.  Miss  Drayton!  "  cried 
the  boy. 

Instinctively  she  touched  him  as  he  passed.  What 
could  he  want  of  her?  The  boy  stopped. 

"  Beg  pardon,  but  are  you  Miss  Drayton?  " 

"  I  am." 

"  Card  for  you,  ma'am,"  he  said  briefly,  presenting 
his  little  silver  salver. 

She  took  the   card   and   read  the   name,    "  Mr. 
Brewer  Phillips." 

"  The  gentleman  is  in  one  of  the  small  reception 
rooms  on  the  first  floor  up,  ma'am,"  said  the  boy. 
"  Shall  I  take  you  there?  " 

Scarcely  comprehending  the  situation,  the  girl 
nodded,  rose,  and  followed  the  boy.  She  was  in  the 
elevator  in  a  moment.  One  swift  glance  at  its  mir- 
rored sides — she  would  not  have  been  a  woman 
without  that — reassured  her.  Her  neat  street  dress 
of  dark  blue,  set  off  her  pale,  clear  face,  into  which 
the  unusual  incident  had  brought  a  touch  of  color. 
It  was  an  adventure.  Who  could  Mr.  Brewer  Phil- 
lips be,  and  what  could  he  want  with  her?  She 
had  little  time  for  reflection,  however,  for  the  eleva- 
tor stopped,  and  the  boy  ushered  her  into  one  of  the 
small  rooms,  which  she  entered,  card  in  hand. 

A  man  of  perhaps  thirty-five,  sitting  in  one  of  the 
large  chairs,  rose  instantly  and  looked  at  her  indif- 
ferently. He  was  about  to  turn  away,  when  he  per- 
ceived that  she  had  a  card  in  her  hand  and  was 


242  The  Records 


approaching  him.  He  stopped,  and,  after  a  step  or 
two,  she  stopped  also  and  looked  at  him. 

He  was  one  of  the  finest  specimens  of  manhood 
she  had  ever  seen,  and  his  evening  dress,  even  to  a 
more  experienced  and  critical  eye  than  that  of  the 
simple  country  girl,  was  perfect.  There  was  no 
effeminacy  or  softness  about  his  appearance  either. 
He  had  that  keen,  brilliant,  "  I  will  be  master  of 
the  world "  expression  which  the  successful  New 
Yorker,  especially  if  he  happen  to  have  birth  and 
breeding  behind  his  achievements,  exhibits  more 
powerfully  than  any  one  else.  He  held  a  letter  in  hia 
hand. 

The  pause  between  them  threatened  to  grow  em- 
barrassing. Divining  that  the  young  woman  before 
him  was  unused  to  the  ways  of  society,  he  ventured: 

"  Pardon  me,  you  are  looking  for  some  one?  May 
I  assist  you?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  girl,  reading  from  the  card,  "  for 
Mr.  Brewer  Phillips." 

Mr.  Brewer  Phillips,  albeit  he  was  a  veteran  and 
experienced  man  of  the  world,  thought  he  had  never 
heard  his  name  so  exquisitely  pronounced.  There 
was  a  quality  in  Eleanor  Drayton's  voice  that  caught 
his  attention.  He  looked  more  closely  at  her  and 
saw  that  she  was  beautiful,  not  with  the  clear,  cold 
brilliancy  of  the  women  of  his  world,  but  with  the 
sweetness  and  freshness  of  a  wild  rose. 

"  I  am  Mr.  Phillips,  he  responded,  bowing 
gravely. 


The  Impulses  of  Eleanor  243 

"  They  said — the  bell-boy,  that  is — that  you 
wanted  to  see  me.  I  am  Miss  Drayton." 

In  spite  of  himself,  the  man  started.  A  look  of 
surprise  came  into  his  face. 

"  Miss  Eleanor  Drayton?  " 

"  Yes." 

There  was  another  pause.  Mr.  Phillips  stood  de- 
liberating. Finally  he  came  to  a  resolution.  In 
accordance  with  his  decision  he  extended  his  hand 
with  the  letter. 

"  I  have  a  letter  of  introduction  to  you." 

"  To  me? "  asked  the  girl,  in  bewilderment. 

"  To  Miss  Eleanor  Drayton." 

Sure  enough,  there  was  her  name  written  in  bold 
characters  on  a  very  smart  looking  envelope  which 
he  held  out  to  her.  "What  could  it  mean?  Mechani- 
cally she  took  it,  opened  it,  and  slowly  read: 

"Dearest  Eleanor: — This  will  be  handed  to  you 
by  Brewer  Phillips,  one  of  Jack's  college  chums,  and 
one  of  the  finest  fellows  in  New  York.  I  did  not 
know  until  the  other  day  that  you  were  in  New 
York,  and  I  so  much  want  you  to  meet  Brewer. 
He  has  promised  me  to  be  awfully  nice  to  you  for 
Jack's  and  my  sake.  After  he  sees  you  I  am  sure  he 
will  be  for  your  own.  Have  a  good  time  with  him, 
my  dear,  and  tell  me  all  about  it  when  you  come 
home.  Devotedly,  BLANCHE." 

There  had  been  an  unfortunate  mistake.  She 
knew  no  Blanche,  she  knew  no  Jack.  The  letter  was 
not  intended  for  her.  There  must  be  another 


244  The  Records 


Eleanor  Drayton.  She  was  dreadfully  embarrassed. 
As  a  preliminary  to  explaining  the  mistake,  she 
began: 

"  I  am  glad  to  make  your  acquaintance,  Mr.  Phil- 
lips, but " 

"  The  pleasure  is  mine,"  interrupted  the  man, 
"  and  since  I  have  seen  you  I  have  a  quarrel  with 
fate." 

"Why  so?" 

"  The  letter  should  have  been  received  a  week 
ago,  but  I  was  off  on  my  yacht  on  an  end-of-the- 
season  cruise,  and  didn't  go  back  to  the  office  until 
this  afternoon.  When  do  you  return  home  ? " 

"  To-morrow." 

"  Well,  there  is  time  for  me  to  do  something  for 
you." 

"  Thank  you,  but  I  return  home  to-morrow.  And, 
Mr.  Phillips,  let  me  explain." 

"  Oh,  never  mind !  I  have  a  box  for  the  opera  to- 
night. You  know  Eames  sings  in  *  Tosca,'  and  I 
should  like  to  take  you.  Will  you  go  with  me  ?  I'll 
take  good  care  of  you  and  return  you  safely.  I  want 
to  make  it  pleasant  for  you  in  some  way." 

A  temptation  sprang  suddenly  into  Eleanor's  mind. 
Her  last  night  in  New  York.  She  had  never  seen 
grand  opera.  Why  not?  He  did  not  ask  her  if  she 
knew  Jack  and  Blanche.  His  invitation  was  evi- 
dently earnest  and  for  herself.  Why  not  accept? 
She  might  as  well,  have  the  pleasure  with  the  pen- 
alty of  an  adventure.  She  knew  that  people  ordi- 
narily dressed  extravagantly  for  the  opera,  but  there 


The  Impulses  of  Eleanor  245 

was  one  dainty  white  dress  she  had  made  herself, 
which  she  had  copied  from  one  she  saw  in  a  Fifth 
Avenue  shop  window,  that  might  do.  Certainly  there 
were  few  seamstresses  who  could  "  whip  and  roll " 
and  ply  the  needle  to  such  advantage  as  she.  Her 
dress  would  be  all  right,  and — well On  a  sud- 
den her  good  sense  seemed  to  abandon  her,  and  be- 
fore she  recognized  what  she  was  doing,  she  had  ac- 
cepted. 

"  It's  a  quarter  to  eight  now.  You  have  had  your 
dinner? " 

She  nodded,  with  a  vivid  remembrance  of  the  cup 
of  cocoa  and  piece  of  bread  in  her  own  fifth-story 
back. 

"  "Well,  I  don't  know  how  long  it  will  take  you  to 
dress  for  the  opera.  They  say  women  require  an 
indefinite  time." 

"  I  can  do  it  in  half  an  hour." 

"  You  may  have  more  than  that.  The  curtain  doea 
not  rise  until  half  after  eight,  and  i£  doesn't  make 
any  difference  if  we  don't  get  there  until  nine." 

"  I  shouldn't  want  to  miss  even  a  note  of  the 
opening,"  said  the  girl,  quickly,  thinking  of  the  price 
she  was  paying  for  her  prospective  pleasure. 

"  Well,  I  shall  call  for  you  at  twenty-five  min- 
utes after  eight.  Shall  I  send  word  to  your  room?  " 

"  No  it  won't  be  necessary.    I  will  meet  you  here." 

"  And,  if  you  will  allow  me,  I  shall  send  you  some 
flowers." 

"  Don't  send.    Please  bring  them." 

She  began  to  recognize  into  what  deep  water  her 


246  The  Records 


acceptance  was  thrusting  her — but  still  she  had  not 
the  courage  to  explain. 

"  And  you  will  be  ready  at  the  appointed  time  ?  " 

"  I  surely  will.    Good-by,"  answered  the  girl. 

She  returned  to  the  lobby  to  find  that  her  friend 
had  finished  her  call;  then  in  her  company  she  went 
east  along  Thirty-fourth  Street.  She  did  not  per- 
ceive that  Phillips  left  the  hotel  shortly  after  and 
had  followed  her  on  the  other  side  of  the  street 
until  <she  disappeared  in  her  own  doorway. 

"  Well,"  he  thought  to  himself,  as  the  door  closed 
behind  her,  "  who  would  have  thought  it?  Such  a 
pretty,  innocent-looking  little  girl!  I  wonder  where 
the  real  Eleanor  Drayton  is?  To  tell  the  truth,  I 
don't  much  care.  It's  a  good  thing  she  didn't  fall 
into  the  hands  of  some  blackguard  who  would  make 
her  rue  'her  folly.  I'll  step  over  there  and  find  out. 
Ah,  my  man,"  he  said,  as  he  met  the  janitor  coming 
out  of  the  door,  "  does  a  Miss  Eleanor  Drayton  live 
here?" 

"  Sure,  she  does.  Thank  ye,  sor,"  replied  the  man, 
touching  'his  hat,  as  a  coin  was  slipped  into  his  hand. 
"  There's  a  young  leddy  by  that  name  boardin'  with 
the  family  that  owns  fhe  flat  on  the  fifth  floor." 

"  That's  not  quite  so  bad,  then ;  it  is  her  real  name, 
anyway.  I  see  how  it  happened,"  soliloquized  Phil- 
lips, as  he  went  toward  the  hotel.  "  Now  for  the 
opera!  That  girl  certainly  moves  me  strangely." 

All  of  which  goes  to  show,  that  even  the  most  in- 
durated veteran,  in  spite  of  his  assurance  in  his 
armor,  begot  of  many  campaigns,  has  joints  in  his 


The  Impulses  of  Eleanor  247 

harness  which  a  certain  keen  little  archer  may  find 
when  occasion  serves. 


n 


Exactly  at  twenty-five  minutes  past  eight,  Eleanor 
Drayton  met  Brewer  Phillips  in  the  room  where 
they  had  separated  some  forty  minutes  before.  She 
still  wore  her  short  blue  jacket.  Such  a  thing  as  an 
opera  cloak,  or  even  a  golf  cape,  was  as  far  from  her 
fancy  as  from  her  purse.  On  her  head  was  the  same 
inconspicuous  walking-hat  which  she  had  worn  be- 
fore. Phillips  was  accustomed  to  women  dressed 
cap-a-pie  in  accordance  with  the  prevailing  fashion, 
and  he  took  in  the  incongruous  costume  which 
seemed  so  utterly  inappropriate  to  the  occasion  with 
something  of  dismay. 

What  would  the  people  who  saw  him  at  the  opera 
think?  A  country  cousin?  He  was  big  enough,  how- 
ever, to  be  indifferent  to  public  >-  opinion,  and, 
whether  he  were  or  not,  he  had  gone  into  the  under- 
taking with  his  eyes  open,  and  there  was  nothing  now 
but  to  carry  it  through.  He  stepped  forward  and 
greeted  the  girl  with  a  courtesy  and  cordiality  which 
were  as  rare  in  her  experience  as  they  were  charm- 
ing. Her  own  courage  was  at  the  breaking  point.  It 
had  ebbed  steadily  while,  with  frantic  haste,  she  had 
arrayed  herself  in  her  best  and  only  dress  of  white. 
Had  there  been  any  way  of  explaining  the  situation, 
she  would  have  withdrawn  from  the  adventure  on 
which  she  had  so  impulsively  entered.  But,  how- 


248  The  Records 


ever,  she  had  reasoned  and  speculated,  she  had  hes- 
itated and  was  last.  She  desperately  resolved  to  go 
through  with  it. 

As  he  greeted  her,  he  handed  her  a  great  bunch  of 
American  Beauty  roses. 

"  Oh !  "  she  exclaimed,  glad  indeed  of  the  distrac- 
tion, since  his  steady,  rather  quizzical  gaze  was  hard 
to  sustain,  "  what  magnificent  roses !  I  never  saw 
any  such  flowers  as  these  before,  except  in  the  shop- 
windows  here  in  New  York.  We  didn't  have  them 
on  the  farm.  We  could  not  grow  roses  like  those  on 
our  hills." 

"  On  the  farm?  "  he  queried. 

"  Yes — ah,  our  home  in  the  country,  you  know. 
Thank  you  so  much  for  them,"  she  continued,  ner- 
vously. "Am  I  in  time?" 

"  Exactly,"  he  replied,  "  the  carriage  is  at  the 
door." 

In  a  few  moments,  wrapped  in  warm  robes  of  fur, 
she  was  rolling  down  the  street  in  an  elegantly  ap- 
pointed brougham.  There  was  a  delicious  luxury 
in  the  whole  proceeding  which  she  had  never  before 
experienced,  but  which  she  accepted  without  the 
slightest  difficulty.  His  manner  toward  her  was  per- 
fect; deferential,  and  yet  with  a  little  touch  of  pro- 
tection in  it  that  warmed  her  heart.  If  he  had 
known  all  about  her,  if  she  had  been  what  she  had 
•assumed  to  be,  he  could  not  have  improved  on  it. 
The  distance  to  the  Metropolitan  Opera  House  was 
but  a  short  one,  and  in  a  few  moments — too  few  for 
the  girl,  who  would  have  enjoyed  riding  like  that 


The  Impulses  of  Eleanor  249 

forever — they  entered  the  magic  portal  and  stood  in 
the  gorgeous  lobby.  In  a  short  time,  having  divested 
herself  of  her  jacket  in  the  little  ante-room  at  his 
suggestion,  the  man  noting  with  approval  that  her 
gown  was  not  only  inconspicuous,  from  its  very  sim- 
plicity of  style  and  material,  but  that  it  was  won- 
derfully becoming,  she  was  handed  to  a  seat  in  one 
of  the  parterre  boxes. 

They  were  a  little  late,  the  orchestra  was  playing, 
the  body  of  the  house,  the  parquet,  that  is,  was 
crowded  with  people,  and  many  of  the  boxes  were 
already  full.  The  scene  that  burst  upon  her  eyes, 
and  for  which  she  was  not  prepared,  was  one  of  the 
utmost  social  magnificence.  She  sat  down  in  her 
chair,  leaning  forward  over  the  rail,  and  tried  to 
take  in  the  picture  with  one  comprehensive  glance. 

Phillips  watched  her  with  a  pleasure  which  he  had 
hardly  hoped  to  experience  in  that  place  again;  the 
pleasure  that  an  old  habitue  takes  in  the  impression 
that  a  thing  well  known  and  of  little  moment  pro- 
duces upon  the  unfamiliar  and  unknowing.  He  had 
marked  the  scene  so  many  times  that  he  was  indif- 
ferent to  it  now,  and  while  she  watched  the  great 
horseshoe  of  humanity  glittering  with  jewels,  spark- 
ling with  light  reflected  from  polished  arms  and 
rounded  shoulders  rising  from  exquisite  fabrics  of 
priceless  value,  to  which  the  great  auditorium  in  its 
noble  and  beautiful  proportions  gave  fitting  setting, 
he  marked  only  her. 

He  had  no  idea  before  how  rarely  beautiful  she 
was.  The  clear  pallor  of  her  face  beneath  the 


250  The  Records 


shadow  of  her  soft  brown  hair  had  the  daintiest  tint 
of  the  purest  ivory,  but  now  relieved  by  a  mounting 
flush  of  surprise  and  pleasure.  She  forgot  how  she 
came  to  be  there,  the  strange  circumstances  of  her 
situation,  her  deceit,  in  the  charm  of  it  all. 

"  Oh/'  she  murmured,  "  if  I  had  seen  and  known 
things  like  these,  I  could  have  painted  better  pic- 
tures, played  better  music,  written  poetry  that  I 
should  not  have  been  ashamed  of  to-day.  But  there 
was  nothing — nothing  on  the  farm!  " 

"Do  you  like  it?"  asked  Phillips,  amusedly,  yet 
tenderly — why  tenderly,  if  he  had  been  asked  he 
could  scarcely  have  told,  except  that  the  girl  was  so 
beautiful,  so  innocent,  so  appealing,  so  honest,  some- 
how, in  spite  of  what  he  knew. 

"It's  heavenly!"  she  exclaimed,  "this  magnifi- 
cent theater,  the  beautiful  women,  the  lights,  the 
music,  the  jewels,  the  flowers " 

She  lifted  one  of  the  long-stemmed  blossoms  from 
her  lap  and  touched  it  unconsciously  to  her  lips. 

"  You  are  glad  to  be  here  ?  " 

"  Glad!  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Yes,  in  spite  of  every- 
thing! "  unconsciously  betraying  her  feelings.  He 
made  no  sign,  however. 

"  It  is  a  privilege  to  me  to  have  been  honored  by 
your  presence,"  he  replied. 

The  opera  was  cast  and  staged  superbly.  De 
March!  and  Scotti  were  in  splendid  voice,  and  Eames 
sang  as  beautifully  as  she  looked.  The  girl  listened, 
entranced.  The  buzz  of  conversation  from  the  boxes 
here  and  there  visibly  annoyed  her.  She  leaned  for- 


The  Impulses  of  Eleanor  251 


ward  over  the  rail,  absorbed,  entranced,  at  the  gor- 
geous spectacle  and  the  magnificent  music.  Her 
bosom  rose  and  fell  under  her  excitement,  the  color 
quivered  in  her  delicate  cheek  as  sunlight  plays  upon 
a  wild  rose  petal.  She  forgot  everything  but  what 
she  was  there  to  see.  It  was  a  satisfactory  occupa- 
tion for  him  to  watch  her. 

And  he  watched  her  with  a  curious  admixture  of 
feelings.  Who  she  was,  how  she  came  there,  he 
could  not  know.  As  to  what  she  was — ah,  that  was 
another  question.  He  would  stake  his  life  upon  her 
purity,  her  innocence.  These  were  obvious  to  the 
most  casual  observer.  Yet  it  was  also  obvious  that 
she  had  no  legitimate  right  to  be  there;  and  that, 
although  her  name  might  be  Eleanor  Drayton, 
she  was  not  the  Miss  Drayton  to  whom  he  had  been 
accredited.  Well,  whoever  she  might  be,  or  what- 
ever the  other  Miss  Drayton  might  not  be,  he  felt 
sure  of  one  thing,  that  she  could  not  be  more  attrac- 
tive or  charming  than  this  young  ingenue  whom  fate 
had  thrown  into  his  arms. 

Between  the  acts  they  resumed  their  conversation, 
although  it  was  at  first  difficult  for  the  girl  to  come 
to  earth  again.  She  would  rather  not  have  talked, 
because  talking  involved  further  deceit  and  reminded 
her  that  she  was  only  a  fraud  after  all.  Yet,  after  a 
time,  she  found  that  Phillips  was  scarcely  less  inter- 
esting to  her  than  the  opera.  By  degrees  he  led  her 
to  talk  about  herself.  He  found  out  nearly  all  that 
he  wanted  to  know.  He  could  perceive  how  pained 
she  was  at  the  thought  of  the  deception  she  was 


252  The  Records 


practising,  and  he  encouraged  hefr  to  talk  about 
herself. 

There  is  only  one  person  that  a  woman  would 
rather  talk  about  than  herself,  and  that  is  the  man 
she  loves.  Eleanor  Drayton  did  not  love  Phillips 
yet,  at  least  she  did  not  recognize  that  she  did  any 
more  than  Phillips  recognized  that  he  loved  Eleanor 
Drayton;  so  she  prattled  on,  forgetful  after  a  while 
of  the  part  she  was  sustaining. 

She  laid  her  life  bare  before  him.  In  each  of  the 
long  intermissions  a  chapter  of  the  story  was  told. 
He  learned  about  her  father,  about  the  farm,  about 
her  ambitions,  and  about  her  failures.  She  did  not 
tell  him  how  heart-breaking  it  had  been,  but  that  he 
divined.  It  was  'a  curious  experience  for  the  girl. 
Unsatisfying  life  between  the  acts;  romance,  poetry, 
illusion,  while  the  opera  was  being  sung.  He  had 
questioned  her  so  deftly,  led  her  on  so  delicately,  that 
she  scarcely  realized  that  she  had  told  him  so  much. 
Besides,  between  the  music  and  the  man,  she  had  no 
time  for  thought. 

It  was  over  at  last.  How  strangely  happy  she  felt 
clinging  to  his  arm  in  the  lobby,  oblivious  to  the 
curious  glances  at  her  little  blue  jacket  and  her 
walking  hat,  while  they  waited  for  the  carriage  to 
come  to  the  entrance.  She  seemed  to  have  a  right 
to  be  there.  She  seemed  to  have  known  him  a  long 
time. 

There  was  another  short  drive  to  the  Waldorf, 
then  a  supper,  the  daintiest  and  most  delightful 
repast  that  the  gods  ever  set  before  a  goddess,  she 


How  strangely  happy  she  felt 
clinging  to  his  arm. — Page  252 


The  Impulses  of  Eleanor  253 

thought.     It  was  like  part  of  the  play;  indeed  the 
whole  thing  had  been  like  a  play  to  her. 

He  kept  her  there  as  long  as  he  dared.  To  be 
sure,  there  was  no  one  to  question  whether  the  girl 
went  away  early  or  late,  and  he  was  enjoying  the  sit- 
uation cso  greatly,  'he  was  so  attracted  and  charmed 
by  her,  that  he  fain  would  have  kept  her  forever.  , 
Yet  he  had  sworn  to  himself  to  take  no  advantage 
of  her  inexperience  and  innocence,  and  by  and  by  he 
told  himself  that  they  must  part,  and  bade  her  good- 
night. 

They  were  in  one  of  the  little  reception-rooms 
whither  they  had  strayed  after  that  supper. 

"  It  has  been  'such  a  delightful  evening,"  she  said, 
shyly,  "  the  happiest  I  ever  had,  but  I  must  explain 
to  you " 

"  I  must  go,"  answered  the  man,  quickly,  taking 
her  hand;  "  it  is  very  late.  Good-night." 

"Good-by!" 

"  Do  not  say  good-by.  Shall  I  not  see  you  to- 
morrow? May  I  call  upon  you  in  the  afternoon? " 

"  I  must  go  home  to-morrow,"  she  faltered. 

"  But  you  will  certainly  go  on  the  night  express. 
Won't  you  see  me  here  if  I  call  to-morrow  at  three?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  girl,  with  bended  head  and  agi- 
tated eyes. 

He  longed  to  tell  her  right  then  and  there  two 
things.  That  he  knew  she  was  not  the  woman  he  had 
been  sent  to  meet,  the  real  Eleanor  Drayton,  and  that 
it  was  no  matter;  he  loved  her.  He  did  not  do  it,  But 
he  held  her  hand  tightly  as  he  said  good  night. 


254  The  Records 


"  You  said  it  was  heavenly  to  you.  It  has  been 
that  to  me.  I  introduced  you  to  the  opera;  you  in- 
troduced yourself  to  me.  You  have  been  a  vision  to 
me.  You  won't  fail  me  to-morrow?  " 

"  I— I- 

"  Promise  me  on  your  word  of  honor.  I  won't 
let  you  go  unless  you  do !  " 

"I  promise,"  said  the  girl;  "now  go!  I — I — 
can't  stand  any  more,  I  think.  Good-night." 

She  turned  away  lest  he  should  see  her  eyes  brim- 
ming with  tears,  and  when  she  looked  up  he  had 
gone.  She  shuddered  at  the  thought  of  going  alone 
through  the  streets  at  that  hour  of  night,  or  morning, 
to  her  cheerless  lodging,  but  it  had  to  be  done.  The 
doorkeeper  of  the  hotel  stared  at  her  curiously  as 
she  left  the  building.  He  wondered  where  a  young 
woman  dressed  in  that  fashion  could  be  going  at  that 
time  of  night.  Fortunately,  she  met  no  one  on  her 
way,  although  it  would  have  been  unfortunate  for 
any  one  to  have  molested  her,  for,  as  before,  at  a 
safe  distance  on  the  other  side  of  the  street,  Phillips 
followed  her  until  the  door  of  her  apartment-house 
closed  behind  her. 

When  she  reached  her  room  she  threw  herself, 
dressed  as  she  was,  upon  the  bed,  crushing  beneath 
her  the  roses  which  she  had  dropped  there,  and  burst 
into  tears. 

It  had  been  so  delightful,  the  man  had  been  so 
courteous,  so  tender,  so  appreciative,  and  so  sym- 
pathetic. She  had  enjoyed  it  as  if  to  the  manner 
born,  yet  it  was  all  got  by  false  pretense.  She  was  a 


The  Impulses  of  Eleanor  255 

fraud,  a  sham!  She  would  never  see  him  again, 
never!  The  engagement  of  the  morrow?  She  would 
not  keep  it.  She  could  not  bear  to  let  him  know  the 
truth,  and  she  could  never  see  him  again  without 
telling  it.  She  would  vanish  from  his  life  as  he 
would  vanish  from  hers,  leaving  in  her  heart  an 
emptiness  which  no  memory  could  fill;  in  his  heart — 
what? 


It  was  very  late  the  next  morning  before  Eleanor 
Drayton  was  awakened.  She  had  sobbed  herself  to 
sleep  after  a  long  wrestle  with  her  miseries,  and 
when  she  arose  her  pretty  frock  was  as  rumpled  and 
bedraggled  as  her  feelings.  The  roses  on  the  bed 
were  crushed  and  broken,  and  as  she  glanced  in  the 
mirror  she  was  shocked  and  dismayed  at  the  haggard, 
wretched  expression  upon  her  face.  She  would  not 
have  awakened  when  she  did,  possibly,  had  not  her 
sleep  been  broken  by  a  rough  tapping  at  'her  door. 
When  she  opened  it  the  janitor,  whose  affections 
she  had  won  by  her  quaint  courtesy  to  him,  handed 
her  a  parcel.  Evjen  the  cheery  "  good-mornin' " 
with  which  he  delivered  it,  failed  to  reassure  her. 

She  thanked  him,  closed  the  door,  and  sat  down 
on  the  one  rickety  chair  in  the  room,  fumbling  at 
the  string  with  unsteady  fingers.  The  parcel  bore 
her  address,  she  noticed  vaguely,  and  on  the  wrapper 
was  printed  the  name  of  one  of  the  leading  florists 
of  New  York,  into  the  windows  of  whose  establish- 


256  The  Records 


ment  she  had  often  gazed  with  delighted  apprecia- 
tion. 

When  she  got  the  box  open  at  last,  she  saw  a  great 
heap  of  the  most  exquisite  lilies  of  the  valley.  There 
was  no  card,  nothing  to  indicate  the  donor,  and  after 
her  first  exclamation  of  rapture  at  the  delicious 
daintiness  and  exquisite  fragrance  of  the  blossoms,  it 
suddenly  flashed  into  her  mind  that  they  could  have 
come  from  but  one  person  in  New  York. 

At  the  same  time  she  realized  that  they  had  come 
from  him,  she  also  realized  that  she  must  be  dis- 
covered, that  if  he  had  believed  her  to  be  what  she 
had  assumed  he  would  have  sent  the  flowers  to  the 
hotel.  The  conclusion  was  appalling! 

How  had  he  learned?  Had  she  told  him?  She 
remembered  saying  that  lilies  of  the  valley  were  her 
favorite  flowers.  He  had  smiled  at  her  for  being 
so  old-fashioned,  but  tenderly.  She  had  told  him 
many  things,  she  realized  now,  but  certainly  she 
could  not  have  betrayed  the  main  fact  of  her  adven- 
ture. No,  the  man  must  have  followed  'her!  He 
knew  then,  he  knew  everything!  He  knew  that  she 
was  a  fraud,  that  she  had  enjoyed  his  society  in  the 
place  of  another  woman.  That  she  was  not  the 
Eleanor  Drayton  to  whom  he  had  been  accredited! 
Perhaps  he  had  known  it  all  the  time!  Consterna- 
tion! The  janitor  was  passing  the  door  again.  She 
called  out  to  him:  "  Did  anybody  inquire  for  me  this 
morning,  Michael  ? " 

"  Yis,  miss,"  replied  the  man,  "  the  bye  that  brung 


The  Impulses  of  Eleanor  257 

thim  posies,  an'  last  night  there  wus  a  gintilmin  here, 
ma'am,  about  eight  o'clock,  jist  as  ye  cum  in." 

The  faithful  Michael  did  not  know  that  she  had 
gone  out  again. 

"Who  was  he?" 

"  I  dunno,  ma'am.  But  he  wus  a  mighty  civil 
spoken  man,  an'  hansum'." 

This  was  worse  and  worse!  He  had  known  about 
it  last  night,  when  she  was  enjoying  his  company  in 
that  fool's  paradise.  Perhaps  he  had  known  about 
it  from  the  beginning.  She  buried  her  face  in  the 
cool  blossoms  and  sobbed  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 
And  she  had  thought  she  had  been  successful  in  de- 
ceiving him ! 

She  wanted  to  get  away,  to  leave  the  city,  to  get 
back  to  the  farm  in  the  hills.  She  had  been  a  fool 
in  her  dreams  and  in  her  ambitions  before;  last  night 
she  had  been  a  fool  in  her  actions.  And  he  knew! 
She  had  drunk  deep  for  one  brief  period  of  the  spring 
she  fain  would  'have  quaffed,  and  the  taste  was  now 
bitter  in  her  mouth.  She  would  go,  she  would  go 
that  very  moment.  She  would  never  see  him  again. 
Yet  all  the  misery  she  had  experienced  was  as  nothing 
to  the  pain  that  filled  her  breast  at  that  resolution. 
!No,  she  would  not  go.  Not  until  night,  at  any  rate. 
She  would  keep  her  word.  She  had  pledged  'him  her 
honor,  and  while  she  had  no  doubt  that  he  was  quite 
convinced  that  she  had  no  honor,  yet  she  would  show 
him  the  contrary,  and  she  would  show  him  that  she 
did  not  lack  courage  either,  for  she  would  keep  that 


258  The  Records 


appointment,  go  bravely  to  him  and  tell  him  the 
truth. 

What  must  he  have  thought  of  her?  How  bold, 
how  unmaidenly  she  had  been — an  adventuress! 
No,  She  could  not  face  him.  Yet  she  must!  After 
all  she  could  not  get  away  from  New  York  until 
night,  she  thought.  He  had  told  her  and  he  should 
know.  Yes,  she  would  see  him.  It  would  be  humili- 
ating, agonizing,  to  confess  what  he  already  knew. 
But  she  had  this  compensation;  she  could  at  least  see 
him  and  tell  him  that  she  was,  but  for  this  one  fatal 
misstep,  an  honorable  woman.  She  did  not  realize 
that  if  he  were  not  already  convinced  of  that  fact  no 
statement  on  her  part  would  carry  conviction  to 
him.  That  was  part  of  her  innocence. 

The  manuscripts  she  had  submitted  variously  had 
all  been  returned.  There  was  no  grate  or  stove  in 
the  room  of  course — it  was  heated,  inadequately 
enough,  by  a  hot-air  register — but  she  could  destroy 
her  papers  without  difficulty.  She  took  out  the  little 
heap  on  which  she  had  toiled  so  painfully,  and  tore 
the  leaves  into  tiny  pieces  which,  in  default  of  a 
waste-basket,  she  threw  into  a  corner  of  the  room 
for  the  caretaker's  attention.  Then,  with  a  vivid 
recollection  of  the  nectar  and  ambrosia  of  the  night 
before,  she  made  herself  a  cup  of  tea  over  a  spirit 
lamp,  changed  her  dress,  and  went  to  the  miserable 
little  art  store — save  the  mark! — on  Third  Avenue, 
which  was  the  only  one  where  her  pictures  had  re- 
ceived the  slightest  attention.  She  intended  to  get 
those  pictures  and  destroy  them  also. 


The  Impulses  of  Eleanor  259 

When  she  got  there  another  shock  awaited  her. 
Her  pictures  were  gone!  "Sold,"  said  the  little 
Hebrew,  unctuously  rubbing  his  hands,  "  sold  this 
morning  to  a  gentleman,  a  fine  handsome  man,  who 
drove  up  and  said  he  would  take  them  all.  Took 
them  without  looking  at  them,  too,"  said  the  man, 
adding  fuel  to  her  misery. 

It  was  he,  of  course.  She  remembered  telling  him 
that  she  had  exhibited  them  in  a  shop.  Yes,  she  had 
probably  told  him  where,  in  answer  to  what  she  had 
thought  (a  careless  question.  It  was  noble  of  him  to 
buy  them,  but — he  hadn't  looked  at  them!  He  had 
not  bought  them  for  the  sake  of  the  pictures,  then. 
That  was  crushing!  Still,  there  was  another  side  to 
it.  If  not  for  the  sake  of  the  pictures,  it  must  have 
been  for  her  sake.  Yet,  how  dare  he  treat  her  pic- 
tures so  uncavalierly? 

She  received  the  money,  at  least  that  proportion 
that  the  dealer  chose  to  give  her,  without  a  question, 
returning  a  decided  negative  to  his  request  for  more 
pictures.  The  sum  was  quite  large  to  her,  but  she 
knew  what  to  do  with  it.  It  made  it  doubly  necessary 
for  her  to  see  him  that  afternoon.  She  would  give 
it  back  to  him. 

How  she  passed  the  time  until  the  hour  arrived 
she  could  'scarcely  remember.  But  the  appointed 
time  found  her  in  the  little  reception  room  where  he 
was  waiting  for  her. 

On  his  part,  he  had  been  as  eager  and  as  unsettled 
as  she,  for  fear  she  would  not  come.  He  had  sent 
the  flowers  the  first  thing  in  the  morning.  He  had 


260  The  Records 


realized  that  such  a  girl  as  he  imagined  her  to  be 
would  certainly  be  unable  to  carry  out  the  deception 
further;  that  she  would  have  to  confess  when  she 
saw  him,  and  he  had  a  pretty  shrewd  idea  that  her 
conscience  would  make  her  see  him;  that  is,  if  she 
were  the  girl  he  thought  her.  Under  such  circum- 
stances he  intended  to  make  it  easy  for  her  by  letting 
her  know,  in  this  graceful  way,  that  he  knew  about 
it  and  that  he  had  no  censure  to  pass.  His  anxiety 
had  arisen  from  the  fact  that  it  was  barely  possible 
that  she  might  not  be  the  kind  of  a  girl  he  imagined 
her  to  be,  in  which  case  all  his  hypotheses  as  to  her 
future  conduct  would  fall  to  the  ground.  There  was 
joy  and  relief  in  his  countenance,  therefore,  and 
humiliation  and  despair  in  hers,  as  they  met. 

"  Miss  Drayton,"  he  began,  taking  her  unresisting 
hand  in  his  own,  "  I  am  so  relieved  that  you  have 
come.  All  day  long  I  have  been  wondering  and 
hoping  and  waiting  for  this  moment." 

"  You  sent  me  those  flowers?  "  asked  the  girl. 

"  Yes." 

"  You  knew,  then?  " 

"  My  dear  Miss  Drayton " 

"But  you  knew  I  was  not  your  Miss  Drayton," 
she  burst  forth. 

"  I  wish  to  heaven  you  were !  "  he  said  fervently. 

"  Hush!  Don't  talk  to  me  like  that,  it  hurts  me.  I 
do  not  know  what  you  must  think  of  me,  but  I  did 
not  do  it  deliberately." 

"  I  think  you  everything  that  a  woman  ought  to 
be,"  was  his  extravagant  reply.  "  I  understand  ex~ 


The  Impulses  of  Eleanor  261 

actly  how  it  occurred.  You  gave  way  to  a  sudden 
impulse,  and  I  shall  bless  you  forever  for  having 
done  so." 

"  I  never  knew  how  it  would  be  until  I  got  here 
last  night,  and  after  I  left  you — and — then — I  shall 
never  get  over  the  shame !  " 

"  Don't  say  that,  please !  I  understand.  It  was  a 
surrender  to  a  momentary  idea  on  your  part,  and  I 
tell  you  that  I  am  glad  that  you  did  it.  I  did  not 
dream  there  were  girls  like  you  in  the  world.  I  shall 
never  forget  our  evening  together.  I  am  a  middle- 
aged  man,  years  older  than  you  are,  but  Eleanor 
Drayton,  I  am  in  love  with  you." 

"  Don't !  "  cried  the  girl  again.  "  You  would  not 
say  that  if  you  respected  me.  You  think  because  I 
am  a  fraud,  because  I  took  that  other  woman's  place 
last  night,  that  you  can  say  anything  you  like  to  me ! 
But  one  error  like  that  doesn't  justify  you " 

"  My  dear  child !  "  said  the  man,  stopping  the  rush 
of  passionate  words  by  taking  both  her  hand's  and 
leading  her  to  a  seat  near  the  window.  Fortunately 
no  one  entered  the  room  and  they  were  as  much 
alone  as  if  they  had  been  on  a  desert  island.  "  Does 
a  man  insult  a  woman  when  he  tells  her  that  he  loves 
her  and  does  himself  the  honor  of  asking  her  to  be 
his  wife  ? " 

"  Your  wife !  "  cried  the  girl  staring  at  him. 

"  I  mean  just  that." 

"  Aren't  you  carried  away  by  an  impulse  now? " 

"  I  have  had  nearly  twenty-four  hours  to  think 
about  it,  Miss  Drayton,"  answered  Phillips  gravely, 


262  The  Records 


"  and  the  more  I  think,  the  more  determined  I  be- 
come. A  day  is  sufficient  time  in  which  to  accomplish 
a  great  deal  in  New  York." 

"  You  love  me?    How  can  you?  " 

"  I  never  was  good  at  analysis,"  answered  Phillips 
smiling.  "  I  only  know  that  I  do.  But  you  have 
not  answered  me.  Do  you — of  course  you  can  not, 
but  will  you "  It  was  his  turn  to  become  em- 
barrassed now.  "  Miss  Drayton,"  he  continued  for- 
mally, "  I  do  truly  love  you.  The  more  I  see  of  you 
the  more  I  love  you.  I  am  alone  in  the  world.  I 
'have  a  'sufficiency  of  this  world's  goods  to  keep  a 
wife.  Will  you  marry  me  ?  " 

The  girl  withdrew  her  hands,  rested  her  elbows 
on  a  window  ledge  and  covered  her  eyes  for  a 
moment  of  reflection.  Not  as  to  whether  she  loved 
him.  She  was  sure  of  that.  How  could  she,  how 
could  any  woman,  help  that?  But  there  must  be 
something  wrong.  It  was  impossible  that  he  loved 
her.  If  there  were  only  some  test  of  his  sincerity 
that  she  could  apply.  Ah ! 

"  Those  pictures  of  mine,"  she  said  looking  up  at 
him.  "  You  bought  them  this  morning?  Why?  " 

"  Well,  for  your  sake.    I  wanted  to  have  them." 

"Not  for  the  sake  of  the  pictures?  If  they  had 
not  belonged  to  me,  would  you  have  bought  them?  " 

"  No,  I  suppose  not.  You  see,  my  ordinary  bus- 
iness would  not  have  called  me  where  I  could  have 
seen  them." 

"  There  was  nothing  in  the  pictures  then,  to  at- 
tract you? " 


The  Impulses  of  Eleanor  263 

"  My  dear  Miss  Drayton,"  he  expostulated  en- 
deavoring to  stave  off  the  impending  question  'he 
was  quick  enough  to  foresee. 

"  No,  I  want  an  answer,"  she  insisted. 

It  was  a  hard  question,  but  his  good  angel  was 
standing  by  his  side,  and  he  told  the  truth. 

"  Well,  no,  then." 

"  The  pictures  are  very  bad?  " 

"  If  you  must  have  it — yes." 

"  There  is  no  evidence  of  talent,  genius,  then?  " 

"  Not  the  slightest." 

"  And  you  bought  them  because " 

"  I  bought  them  because  I  loved  you  and  because 
I  did  not  wish  pictures  like  those  to  appear  in  public 
with  the  name  of  my  future  wife  signed  to  them." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  girl  quietly,  "  I  believe 
that  you  do  love  me.  You  are  an  honest  man.  I  will 
marry  you,  if  you  will  come  to  the  farm  for  me." 

"  But  do  you  love  me?  "  he  queried,  puzzled. 

She  nodded  her  head  slowly. 

"  I  cannot  help  it,"  she  murmured,  hiding  her 
face  in  her  hands. 

They  were  still  alone  luckily,  and  he  speedily 
found  a  more  satisfactory  resting  place  for  that 
pretty  head  than  those  dainty  hands. 

"  Now  you  will  tell  me  why  you  accepted  me  after 
so  much  catechism? " 

"  Your  answers  convinced  me  that  you  were  an 
honest  man.  If  you  told  me  the  truth  about  the 
pictures,  you  would  tell  me  the  truth  about  every- 
thing. I  know  the  pictures  are  awful.  I  have7 


264  The  Records 


learned  that  since  I  came  to  New  York.  I  tore  up 
my  writings  this  morning.  I  was  going  to  get  the 
pictures  and  destroy  them  also.  I  told  you  before 
that  I  had  failed  in  everything." 

"  There  is  one  thing  I  am  sure  you  will  not  fail 
in." 

"What  is  that?" 

"  In  being  the  sweetest  and  dearest  of  wives." 

"  I  will  try,"  she  answered  simply.  "  But  it  has 
been  so  irregular " 

"  And  therefore  so  delicious,"  he  interrupted 
smiling. 

"  And  I'm  glad  I'm  not  the  other  Miss  Drayton." 

"  So  am  I." 

"  Yes,  but  you  must  come  up  to  the  farm  and  see 
my  father  first." 

"I  would  go  to  the  end  of  the  earth  for  you!  " 
answered  the  man. 


Twelfth  Record 

THE    LEVITE 


"  Isn't  it  a  pity,"  said  the  woman  softly,  "  that 
friendship,  which  should  be  so  lasting,  is  so  evanes- 
cent a  thing? " 

She  struck  a  few  random  chords  upon  the  piano 
as  she  spoke,  chords  in  a  minor  key,  as  if  to  accent- 
uate the  sadness  of  the  thought  that  filled  her  mind. 
She  sat  with  her  head  slightly  turned  away  from  the 

NOTE. — TJie  reader  would  better  not  mits  this,  it  is  inter- 
esting. It  will  be  observed  that  this  RECORD  is  unique  among 
those  included  in  this  volume  in  that  it  is  the  only  one  which 
has  not  had  the  advantage  of  a  previous  serial  publication. 
That  it  has  not  seen  the  light  elsewhere  is  due  to  no  fault 
of  my  own.  It  has  been  submitted  to  and  declined  by  four- 
teen of  the  best  magazines  of  the  country.  The  reasons  for 
this  declination  are  clearly  set  forth  in  the  following  letter 
from  a  representative  of  one  of  the  greatest  of  our  magazines: 

"  MY  DEAR  DR.  BRADY: 

" '  THE  LEVITE '  is  an  awfully  good  story,  but  I  fear  our 
readers  are  too  Puritan  in  mind  to  find  pleasure  in  it.  We 
have  to  be  extremely  careful  as  you  know  because  of  our 
peculiar  audience.  If  it  were  not  for  that  I  should  be  glad 
to  say  yes  instead  of  enclosing  the  MS. 

"Yours,  very  faithfully, 


In  one  form   or  another  this   was  the  verdict  of   most   of 


266  The  Records 


man  who  leaned  over  the  piano  near  her.  The  room 
was  in  darkness  save  for  one  of  those  old-fashioned 
standing  oil  lamps  which  threw  a  brilliant  light  on 
the  music  on  the  rack  and  on  her  face  as  well.  In 
that  light  he  could  see  the  pallor  of  her  cheek. 
Through  the  long  open  windows  the  fragrance  of  the 
roses  about  the  porch  came  blowing  into  the  room 
on  the  night  air. 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  he  remarked,  edging  a 
shade  nearer  to  her  as  he  spoke. 

"  It  is  simple  enough.  People  meet  as  we  have. 
Their  orbits  impinge  for  the  moment.  They  come 
in  touch  for  a  brief  space  and  then — are  severed. 
Like  two  ships  whose  paths  cross  on  the  ocean,  they 
bow,  they  dip  their  flags  and  sail  away — parted,  for- 
ever." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  the  man  drawing 
still  nearer. 

"  We  have  had  a  pleasant  summer  together  Mr. 

those  who  considered  the  story  who  were  willing  to  explain 
their  refusal. 

I  submit  to  the  feminine  reader,  especially,  the  question 
whether  or  not  there  is  anything  in  this  story  which  is  im- 
proper or  harmful,  which  should  debar  it  from  a  magazine  of 
general  circulation.  I  should  be  pleased  to  receive  written 
opinions  on  this  question.  In  this  connection,  it  will  be  per- 
tinent for  me  to  assure  the  reader  that  this  RECORD  is  more 
nearly  literally  true  than  any  other  in  the  book.  I  received 
the  details  from  a  clerical  friend  whose  reputation  is  beyond 
question.  The  story  and  the  refusal  of  the  magazines  to  ac- 
cept it  form  an  interesting  comment  upon  the  current  discus- 
sion going  on  throughout  the  country  between  the  magazine 
editors,  the  authors  of  short  stories  and  the  public. — C.  T.  B. 


The  Levite  267 

Effingham.  Now  it  is  over.  I  am  going  away  to- 
morrow, back  to  the  city — "  her  head  drooped 
lower,  her  voice  sank  almost  to  a  whisper — "  back 
to  the  city,"  she  murmured,  "  the  city  with  all  its 
evil,  its  wickedness,  its  crime,  its  shame.  Back 

"  Do  you  know  what  you  are  saying?  "  interrupted 
the  man  almost  roughly. 

"  Who  should  know  better  than  I?  " 

"  But " 

"  I  am  going  out  of  your  life  to-morrow,"  she 
continued  swiftly.  "  It  has  been  a  pleasant — shall 
I  say  interlude? — but  it  is  over  and " 

"  You  are  never  going  out  of  my  life !  "  returned 
the  man  bending  over  her. 

She  turned  her  face  toward  him,  lifted  her  hand 
and  held  him  back. 

"  Out  of  your  life,"  she  persisted  relentlessly. 
"  If  we  should  meet  upon  the  street  a  year  from  now 
you  will  '  pass  me  by  as  the  idle  wind  which ' 

"I  can  not  have  you  say  suc'h  things  as  that!  'r 
said  the  man  taking  her  hand  in  his  own.  "  The 
friendship  that  forgets  is  unworthy  of  the  name. 
Besides  I — Miss  Carstairs,  I  am  only  a  poor  country 
clergyman,  the  rector  of  this  little  insignificant 
church  here.  The  life  of  a  clergyman  is  a  hard  one 
at  best,  and  the  life  of  his  wife  is  perhaps  harder.  I 
have  little  or  nothing  to  offer  you.  I  have  no  hope 
that  you  will 

"  Stop!  "  cried  the  woman  rising  to  her  feet  and 


268  The  Records 


tearing  away  her  hand.  "  You  do  not  know  what  you 
say.  You  don't  know  what  I  am." 

"  I  know  you  are  the  sweetest,  purest,  noblest 
woman  whom  God  has  ever  permitted  me  to  meet." 

"No,  no!" 

"  Yes.  And  this  summer  spent  with  you  has  been 
the  happiest  in  my  life.  You  will  forget  me  doubt- 
less, and  when  we  meet  on  the  street  it  will  be  you 
who  will  pass  me  by  as  the  idle  wind  which  you  re- 
spect not."  He  smiled  sadly  as  he  completed  her 
quotation.  "  But — I  love  you,  Miss — Laura.  I  shall 
never  forget  you !  Were  my  heart  earth  in  its  earthy 
bed  it  would  leap  to  the  tread  of  your  footstep  above 
it.  Pass  you  by?  I  would  give  all  that  I  hope  for  if 
you  would  be " 

He  hesitated.  The  woman  stood  as  if  petrified, 
listening  to  the  passionate  avowal. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  as  she  looked  at  him,  constrained 
by  his  feeling,  "  if  I  would  be  your " 

"  My  wife." 

And  as  he  spoke  the  magic  words  she  had  longed 
to  hear  she  suddenly  stooped,  seized  his  hand  before 
he  comprehended  what  she  was  about  and  kissed  it. 

"  Laura !     Does  this  mean  that  you " 

"That  I  love  you?  Yes!  The  years  I  spent  in 
the  convent,  so  long  ago  it  seems,  the  few  months 
that  I  have  been  here — they  were  glimpses  of 
heaven!  I  have  won  the  love  of  an  honest  man,  an 
honorable  gentleman — but  it  was  bitterly  wrong  of 
me.  I  should  not  have  let  you  speak.  I  should  have 
gone  away  before — but  it  was  so  sweet  to  me !  For- 


The  Levite  269 

give  me.  Oh,  my  God,  I  am  the  most  wretched  of 
women!  " 

"  But  you  said — I  can  scarce  believe  it — that  you 
loved  me,"  he  protested,  losing  sight  of  all  else  in 
that  consciousness.  "  Is  it  my  poverty?  My 
humble  position?  The  life  of  the  wife  of  a  clergy- 
man that  daunts  you " 

"  No,  no !  I  could  work  for  you,  work  with  you, 
slave  for  you,  and  count  it  happiness,  but  I  am  not — 
not — worthy  of  you.  I  am " 

"  Say  rather  I  am  unworthy  of  you." 

"  No,  not  that!  "When  you  know  you  will — cast 
me  off." 

"  '  Though  all  men  shall  be  offended  because  of 
thee  yet  will  I  never  be  offended,'  "  returned  the 
priest  unconsciously  quoting  from  the  Book  which 
was  life  to  him  and  to  those  to  whom  he  ministered. 
"  Dearest,  I  will  not  allow  you  to  speak  so  of  your- 
self. If  you  love  me,  be  my  wife." 

He  stretched  out  his  arms  toward  her  with  all  his 
heart  in  his  voice,  in  his  look,  in  his  gesture;  and  the 
woman  resolutely  turned  away  from  him.  There 
was  a  step  on  the  porch.  A  pleasant  voice  came  to 
them  out  of  the  night. 

"  Ah,  good  evening,  Miss  Carstairs.  Effingham,, 
old  fellow,  how  are  you?  I  saw  you  two  through 
the  window  and  made  bold  to  enter  unannounced."1 

More  quick  to  recover  her  equipoise,  although  she 
trembled  violently  under  the  strain  to  which  she  had 
been  subjected,  Laura  Carstairs  turned  and  bade  the 
newcomer  welcome.  Russell  looked  at  her  keenly. 


270  The  Records 


The  hand  she  extended  to  him  shook  in  his  strong, 
firm  grasp.  Her  eyes  fell  before  his  direct  searching 
glance,  but  had  her  confusion  been  less  she  would 
have  seen  nothing  but  a  great  pity  for  her  in  his 
honest  gaze. 

"  You  are  going  away  to-morrow  morning,"  he 
said. 

"  Yes." 

"  It  has  been  a  pleasant  summer?  " 

"  The  happiest  I  have  ever  known." 

"  We  will  hope  for  many  more  for  you,  eh,  Effing- 
ham?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  of  course,"  answered  the  clergyman, 
who  had  by  this  time  partially  recovered  his  com- 
posure. "  Russell,"  he  exclaimed,  coming  to  a  sud- 
den determination,  "  you  are  my  oldest  and  best 
friend.  It  seems  proper  that  I  should  tell  you  that 
I  have  this  day  asked " 

"  Don't!  "  cried  the  woman  sharply. 

"  I  came  here,"  interposed  Russell  quickly,  "  to 
tell  you  that  there  is  a  man  hurt — seriously — who 
needs  your  best  attention,  down  the  road.  You  must 
<3ome  at  once!  " 

"  Go  quickly,"  said  the  woman,  extending  her 
band. 

"  I  shall  see  you  to-morrow,"  promptly  answered 
Effingham,  taking  her  hand  in  both  of  his  own  as 
he  spoke,  "and  until  then,  good^by." 

He  could  not  hesitate  before  an  appeal  of  that 
kind. 

"  Good-by,"  whispered  the  woman  faintly. 


The  Levite  271 

"  Come,"  said  Russell,  "  we  must  hurry." 

He  linked  his  arm  in  his  friend's  and  drew  him 
firmly  away.  A  moment,  and  with  one  backward 
glance  through  the  doorway,  a  smiling,  happy,  pas- 
sionate one,  'the  clergyman  was  gone. 

The  woman  sank  down  in  the  chair  and  rested  her 
forehead  on  her  arm.  She  was  fair  to  look  upon  and 
would  have  made  a  fascinating  picture  were  it  not 
for  the  mortal  anguish  that  transfigured  her  face. 
There  was  an  arrow  deep  within  her  heart,  not  shot 
there  by  the  rosy  god. 

"  Oh,"  she  said  wearily  at  last,  "  it  is  too  late ! 
Who  can  wash  out  the  past?  They  never  forgive, 
they  never  forget — to  step  aside  is  damnation,  to 
fall  is  never  to  rise  again!  It  is  too  late!  " 

n 

"  Where  is  the  injured  man,  Russell? "  asked 
Effingham  after  they  had  reached  the  pleasant  tree- 
embowered  road  which  led  across  the  front  of  the 
place  Miss  Carstairs  and  one  who  passed  as  her 
invalid  aunt  had  taken  for  the  summer. 

Russell  looked  up  and  down  the  road  in  the  moon- 
light. It  was  quite  deserted.  There  was  no  one  to 
see,  no  one  to  overhear.  He  drew  the  clergyman 
into  the  deeper  shadow  of  the  bordering  trees. 

"  He  is  here,"  he  said  quietly. 

"Here?    Where?" 

Russell  laid  his  hand  upon  the  other's  breast. 

•"  You  are  he." 


272  The  Records 


"I?  What  do  you  mean?  I  thought  you  said 
somebody  was  hurt — that  my  services  were  needed?  " 

"  Old  friend,  some  one  is  hurt — or  will  be.  Some 
one  who  will  need  all  the  manhood  and  courage  that 
you  possess." 

"  What  folly  is  this?  If  it  is  a  jest  it  is  most  in- 
opportune, Russell,  for  I  had  just  asked  Miss  Car- 
stairs  to  be  my  wife  when " 

"  Miss  Carstairs  can  never  be  your  wife,  Effing- 
ham." 

"And  why  not?" 

«  She " 

Russell  hesitated. 

"  Speak  out,  man!  For  God's  sake,  what  do  you 
mean? " 

"  She  is— She " 

"  Not  married  already?  " 

"  No.     Would  that  she  were!  " 

"  My  God,  do  you  mean " 

"  She  lives  in  Boston  with — Masten." 

The  name  was  a  familiar  one  to  the  clergyman, 
to  everyone  in  Massachusetts  in  fact.  Masten  was  a 
rich  man  about  town,  a  man  whose  acquaintance  was 
an  insult  to  any  honest  woman. 

"  But  she  is  married  to  him?  "  queried  Effingham 
desperately. 

"  No." 

"It's  a  lie!    A  dastardly  lie!" 

The  clergyman  struck  viciously  at  his  friend's 
face.  The  latter  must  have  expected  something  for 


The  Levite  273 

he  parried  the  blow  easily  and  caught  his  struggling 
friend  by  the  arms. 

"  Effingham,"  he  said  quickly,  "  it  is  true.  Would 
to  God  it  were  not!  You  have  known  me  since  we 
were  boys.  We  roomed  together  four  years  at  col- 
lege. Did  I  ever  lie  to  you?  " 

"  It's  a  mistake  then !  It  can  not  be !  I  won't 
hear " 

"  You  must  hear!  "  insisted  the  other  man.  "  I 
pity  her,  God  knows,  but  there  is  no  doubt  of  it. 
Masten  told  me  so  himself.  I  couldn't  believe  it  at 
first." 

"  What  is  she  doing  here?  "  gaspied  the  clergyman, 
all  that  she  had  said  to  him  a  few  moments  before 
coming  back  to  him  and  overwhelming  him.  This 
was  what  she  meant  then.  Oh,  God  pity  him! 

"  He  is  building  her  a  house  in  Boston,  and  she 
came  down  here  to  spend  the  summer.  She  was  ill 
in  the  spring.  He  sent  her  here.  His  checks  pay 
her  expenses.  I've  seen  them  at  the  bank.  She  was 
educated  in  a  convent  I  have  learned.  Her  father 
died,  her  property  was  lost.  She  came  out  of  the 
convent,  helpless,  innocent,  ignorant,  and  fell  into 
that  blackguard  Masten's  hands  in  some  way — I 
don't  know  the  details — and  that's  all.  She  is  going 
back  to  him  to-morrow." 

He  was  an  injured  man  indeed  under  the  shadow 
of  the  trees,  a  man  who  would  have  fallen  but  for 
the  friendly  support  of  Russell's  arms,  a  man  who 
needed  all  the  ministrations  of  the  Rev.  Alfred 


274  The  Records 


Effingham  as  no  man  had  ever  needed  them  before, 
to  enable  him  to  survive  the  disclosures  of  that  night. 


ni 


"  !No,"  said  the  woman  firmly,  "  I  tell  you  again, 
positively,  it  can  not  be.  I  am  determined  to  break 
it  off  now  and  forever." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do?  " 

"  I  am  going  to  be  a  decent  woman,  please  God." 

"You!" 

"  Even  I.  I  do  not  wonder  that  you  are  surprised. 
I  am  surprised  myself .  But  I  have  decided " 

"  When  a  man  makes  a  declaration  like  that  one 
says  cherchez  la  femme?  In  this  case  we  reverse  the 
interrogation.  Who  is  the  man?  " 

Laura  Carstairs  and  Masten  were  walking  across 
the  Common  at  Boston  two  days  after  her  departure 
from  the  little  village  where  she  had  spent  the  sum- 
mer. At  her  companion's  searching  query  the 
woman's  face  flushed.  She  turned  away  her  head. 

"  There  is  a  man,  then!  "  exclaimed  the  other.  I 
knew  it!  "  His  coarse  heavy  face  was  alive  with 
jealous  anger.  "  Who  is  he?  I  don't  believe  all  this 
rot  about  virtue  and  so  on." 

"  Yes,  there  is  a  man,"  said  the  woman,  "  a  man 
far  removed  from  you  and  your  kind.  A  gentleman, 
a  clergyman  of  the  Episcopal  Church.  When  you 
sent  me  there  to  recover  from  the  typhoid  fever  while 
you  built  me  a  house  you  builded  better  than  you 


The  Levite  275 

knew.     I  met  him  there.    He  came  to  see  me.    He 

even  fell — in  lave — with  me." 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  sneered  the  man  brutally.     "  I 

understand." 

"  No,  you  do  not  understand.     It  is  not  possible 

for  you  to  comprehend  love  like  his.    He  asked  me 

to — to  marry  him." 

"  I  think  I  see  you  a  preacher's  wife !  " 

"  I  shall  never  be  a  preacher's  wife.    I  shall  never 

be  anybody's  wife." 

"  You  didn't  accept  him  then?  " 

"Accept  him?    I?    After  you!" 

"  Did  you  tell  him  about  our  little  affair?  " 

"  No,"  answered  the  woman,  "  I  did  not." 

"  Well,  what  will  happen  when  you  do?  " 

"  I  do  not  know.    But  I  intend  to  tell  him." 

"When?" 

"  When  I  get  my  courage  up.    He  respects  me — 

he  loves  me." 

"  Do  you  think  he'll  love  you — as  you  call  it — 

when  he  finds  out?  " 

"  I — I  do  not  know.    I  suppose  not." 

Yet  as  the  woman  spoke,  in  spite  of  herself  there 

was  a  quiver  of  hope  in  her  voice.     There  was  a 

pleading  note  in  her  speech  as  she  turned  to  her 

ruthless  companion. 

"  His  profession  is  to  forgive,"  she  said.     "  There 

was  a  Magdalen  once — his  Master  did.    Maybe " 

"  Laura,  you're  a  fool !  "  said  the  man  bluntly. 

"  The  man  wouldn't  look  at  you  after  he  knew  the 

truth.    I  am  not  much,  but — I  like  you  and  I'm  will- 


276  The  Records 


ing  to  take  care  of  you.  Besides,  you  have  no  choice. 
It's  me  or  " —  he  pointed  downward  with  his  finger 
—"the  gutter!" 

"  That's  not  true,"  said  the  woman  desperately. 
"  I  will  go  to  him.  I  will  tell  him  the  truth.  I  will 
appeal  to  him." 

"  To  marry  you?  " 

"  No.    To  save  me!    To  help  me,  to " 

The  words  died  away  on  her  lips.  They  were  near 
the  Tremont  Street  entrance  to  the  Common.  A 
black-coated  figure  turned  in  from  the  sidewalk  and 
stepped  upon  the  path.  The  woman  stopped,  stared, 
and  went  whiter  than  before.  Masten  for  all  his 
coarseness  was  quick  and  keen.  He  instantly  put  two 
and  two  together. 

"  Your  clerical  friend,  I  see,"  he  remarked  with 
damning  emphasis.  "  Pleasant  meeting.  Well, 
good-by." 

He  struck  off  into  a  path  branching  from  the  main 
one,  walked  a  few  yards  and  sat  down  on  a  bench 
puffing  lazily  at  his  cigar  as  he  watched  the  two. 

The  Rev.  Alfred  Effingham  was  a  changed  man 
indeed.  The  elasticity  of  youth,  the  sunshine  of 
happiness,  had  gone  out  of  him.  Once  he  had 
walked  with  the  careless  firm  step  of  a  healthy 
happy  man,  all  the  fair  sweet  world  before  him.  The 
vigor  of  youth  had  radiated  from  him  when  he  passed. 
He  had  held  his  head  high  and  feared  no  man  or  wo- 
man. It  had  been  his  habit  to  whistle,  sometimes  to 
sing,  as  he  walked  along  the  country  roads.  Now  he 
dragged  his  feet  wearily  over  the  city  street  toward. 


"I — I  beg  your  pardon,  ' 
he  said.— Page  277 


The  Levite  277 

the  immobile  woman  as  if  he  had  been  an  old  man. 
His  head  was  bent,  his  face  was  white  and  drawn. 
His  fingers,  clasped  behind  his  back,  twisted  and 
untwisted  nervously. 

The  woman  had  forgotten  everything  but  that  he 
was  approaching.  As  if  turned  to  stone,  she  stood 
squarely  in  the  pathway  watching  him,  drinking  in 
every  line  of  his  figure,  her  heart  yearning  toward 
him,  her  whole  being,  in  spite  of  the  stern  rigidity 
of  her  pose,  attracted  toward  him.  A  thousand 
hands  seemed  stretched  out  to  draw  him  to  her,  a 
thousand  hands  seemed  to  thrust  her  toward  him, 
yet  she  stood  rooted  to  the  spot  as  firmly  as  the  old 
elms,  swept  by  the  breeze  of  autumn,  shading  the 
way. 

It  was  not  until  he  was  right  upon  her  that  he 
was  aware  of  her  presence.  Startled  out  of  his  ab- 
straction he  lifted  his  head.  Her  heart  ached  to  see 
the  agony  in  his  face. 

"  I — I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said. 

Then,  recognizing  her,  he  stopped  dead  still,  as 
motionless  as  she.  He  stared  at  her.  Was  it  a  sec- 
ond, a  minute,  an  hour?  She  made  no  movement. 
She  said  no  word.  She  only  looked  at  him.  It  was 
a  look  like  that  Peter  might  have  returned  to  his 
Master  when  he  heard  the  cock  crow  the  third  time 
on  the  betrayal  morning.  Effingham's  lips  parted  in- 
voluntarily, as  if  to  speak.  A  moment — then  he 
closed  them.  His  jaw  set  firmly.  He  clenched  his 
hands.  He  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height  and 
looked  her  straight  in  the  face,  and  turned  away  with- 


278  The  Records 


out  a  word,  without  a  gesture,  without  a  sign.  He 
had  indeed  passed  her  by  as  the  idle  wind  which  he 
respected  not! 

She  turned  her  head  and  dry-eyed  followed  him  in 
a  long  agonized  stare  as  he  went  down  the  winding 
path  beneath  the  trees.  How  cold  and  bleak  they 
looked  in  autumn's  frosty  touch;  how  chill  and  bare 
and  gaunt  and  naked  beneath  the  cold  glitter  of  the 
untempered  sun! 

In  a  moment  he  was  gone.  She  noticed  that 
his  lassitude,  his  weariness  had  left  him,  that  he 
walked  erect  with  head  held  high  again.  She  could 
not,  of  course,  know  what  tremendous  pressure  con- 
strained him  to  this  outward  manifestation  of  indif- 
ference. She  could  not  understand  that  his  heart  was 
tearing  his  bosom.  But  she  could,  if  she  had  known 
it,  have  measured  the  force  of  his  tragedy  by  the 
power  of  her  own. 

Despair  overwhelmed  her  like  a  rushing  mighty 
wind.  Her  glance  fell  upon  the  figure  of  Hasten. 
She  stood  hesitant,  irresolute,  undetermined.  Her 
evil  genius  prompted  him.  And  there  was  a  certain 
sympathy  in  the  man's  face.  He  had  seen  and  under- 
stood. He  was  not  all  bad.  He  threw  away  his 
cigar  and  came  toward  her.  He  even  removed  his  hat 
as  if  he  had  been  a  gentleman. 

"Well,  what  did  I  tell  you?"  he  said  compas- 
sionately. "  Poor  old  girl,  you  got  the  cut  direct.  It 
was  a  slap  in  the  face,  sure.  I'm  sorry  for  you.  The 
sniveling  young  puppy!  " 


The  Levite  279 

"  Stop !  "  cried  the  woman  passionately.  "  Do  not 
dare  mention  his  name  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  wish  to,"  answered  the  man  smiling. 
But  I  tell  you  the  truth.  You  have  nowhere  to  go 
but  with  me." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  woman  hopelessly,  after  a  long 
silence  he  was  too  clever  to  break.  "  You  are  right. 
There  is  no  chance  for  me.  Nothing  to  do  now  but 
go  on  in  the  old  way.  No  place  to  go  but  with 
you." 

"  Oome  then,"  said  the  man  cheerfully.  "  You 
haven't  seen  your  new  house  yet.  It's  a  little  gem." 

He  turned  away  and  after  a  second  pause  and  a 
backward  glance  toward  the  empty  path,  with  slow 
lagging  steps,  she  followed  him. 


IV 


The  Reverend  Alfred  Effingham  was  one  of  the 
Archdeacons  of  New  York.  He  'had  had  a  varied 
career  in  the  ministry;  a  successful  one  from  many 
points  of  view.  On  the  whole  his  life  had  been  a 
happy  one.  He  had  married,  children  had  been  born 
to  him,  and  his  home  was  pleasant  to  him.  He  might 
have  held  the  rectorship  of  one  of  the  largest 
churches  in  the  city,  but  he  had  chosen  instead  to 
devote  'himself  to  the  missionary  field  where  the 
laborers  are  few  indeed,  and  the  harvest  plenty,  but 
hard  to  garner.  It  was  his  joy  to  minister  to  the 
poor,  the  humble,  the  wretched.  His  happiness  had 


280  The  Records 


been  great  when  the  Bishop  had  offered  him  this  most 
responsible  position.  For  several  years  he  had  gone 
up  and  down  the  hidden  byways  in  the  purlieus  of  the 
city  carrying  the  Gospel  of  his  Master  to  hundreds 
to  whom,  before  his  advent,  the  story  of  the  Cross 
would  have  been  as  incomprehensible  as  a  tale  told  in 
a  foreign  tongue  not  understanded  of  the  people. 

Especially  had  his  work  been  among  those  women 
whom  the  world  passed  by  in  scorn  and  contempt. 
Many  a  wretched  fallen  daughter  of  God  had  been 
led  through  his  efforts  to  acknowledge  the  universal 
Fatherhood.  He  had  set  the  feet  of  many  such 
upon  the  right  road.  His  voice  had  been  the  voice 
of  hope  and  encouragement  to  those  who  would 
listen. 

Although  his  home  was  one  of  quiet  happiness  and 
peace  and  love;  although  there  was  much  inter- 
change of  confidence  between  husband  and  wife 
within  its  confines,  there  were  some  things  which  he 
had  never  told  to  the  partner  of  his  griefs  and  joys, 
and  one  of  them  was  the  story  of  Laura  Carstairs.  A 
clerical  man  of  affairs,  lacking  time  for  the  contem- 
plative side  of  the  ministerial  life,  yet  he  sometimes 
admitted  to  himself  that  his  work  among  women  was 
inspired  by  the  thought  of  that  day,  which  he  would 
have  given  all  the  world  to  have  blotted  out  when 
he  had  left  her  standing  in  the  way. 

Indeed  he  had  tried  to  undo  his  action  afterward. 
He  'had  even  gone  to  the  length  of  calling  at  the 
house  Masten  had  provided  for  her.  He  had  sent 
in  his  card,  and  when  she  had  refused  to  see  him,  he 


The  Levite  281 

had  written  her.  The  note  had  come  back  to  him 
unopened.  Then  he  had  gone  far  west  and  labored 
hard  in  that  needy  field.  By  degrees  the  poignancy 
of  the  recollection  had  been  dulled.  There  he  had 
married.  Now  he  was  back  again  in  New  York. 
And  that  he  dealt  gently  with  the  erring  to-day  was 
in  the  nature  of  an  expiation. 

It  was  winter.  The  sleet  was  blowing  furiously 
down  upon  him  as  he  walked  toward  the  steps  of  the 
elevated  to  take  an  up-town  train.  He  had  been 
down  to  the  Rescue  Mission  in  the  very  worst  sec- 
tion of  the  East  Side  and  was  going  home  after  the 
night  service  there.  It  was  bitter  cold,  and  the 
street  which  at  that  hour  ordinarily  was  filled  with 
humanity — save  the  mark! — was  almost  deserted. 
As  he  turned  to  the  stairway,  out  of  the  black  mouth 
of  an  adjacent  doorway  a  woman  approached  him. 
She  caught  him  by  the  sleeve  and  he  turned  and 
faced  her.  She  was  a  wretched  and  degraded  speci- 
men of  humanity,  almost  the  worst  he  had  ever  seen. 
A  neighboring  electric  light  revealed  every  sin 
marked,  crime  traced  line  in  her  bloated  drunken 
face.  She  shivered  under  her  tawdry  finery. 

"  My  good  woman,"  he  said  gently  baring  his 
head  as  he  spoke  to  her,  as  if  she  had  been  the 
proudest  lady  in  the  land,  "  what  can  I  do  for 
you?  " 

Something  in  his  voice  sent  a  sudden  thrill  through 
her.  She  stared  at  him  in  the  blaze  of  light.  Rec- 
ognition flashed  into  her  eyes. 

"  You!  "  she  cried  in  a  cracked  high-pitched  voice, 


282  The  Records 


releasing  his  arm  and  falling  back  against  the  iron 
pillar  of  the  elevated.  "  You!  " 

"  You  know  me  then?  "  he  asked  curiously. 

"  Know  you?  Aren't  you  the  Reverend  Alfred 
Effingham,  once  of " 

"  I  am.    Do  I  know  you?  " 

There  was  something  strangely  familiar  in  the 
woman's  face,  a  trace  of  vanished  beauty,  a  faint  far- 
off  shadow  of  refinement,  a  simulacrum  of  culture. 
And  her  voice!  Where  had  .he  heard  it? 

"  You  didn't  know  me  once,"  she  answered 
bitterly,  coming  closer  to  him,  taking  his  arms  in  her 
hands,  and  thrusting  her  face  into  his.  "  Look  at 
me !  Perhaps  you'll  know  me  now.  Look  at  me !  " 
She  shook  him  roughly  in  her  excitement.  "  Don't 
you  remember? " 

"Just  heaven!"  gasped  the  priest.  "You  can 
not  be  Laura  Carstairs!  " 

"  All  that  is  left  of  her."  She  flung  out  her  arms 
wildly.  "  All  that  is  left  of  her.  You  passed  me 
by  once.  I  told  you  you  would.  I  was  a  good  woman 
that  day.  I  had  just  broken  off  from  the  old  life. 
No,  I  didn't  hope,  I  didn't  expect.  I  only  knew  that 
you,  a  gentleman,  a  Christian  priest,  had  lifted  me 
up — 'and  I  broke  it  off  then  and  there.  The  man 
I  was  with — he  was  the  man.  I  had  told  him  I 
wouldn't  live  with  him  any  longer.  I  was  going 
to  be  a  decent  woman,  because  I  had  seen  you.  And 
then  you  passed  me  by!  And  did  not  speak!  Look 
at  me  now!  Look  at  me!  " 


The  Levite  283 

"  My  God!  "  exclaimed  the  clergyman  clutching  at 
the  iron  post  of  the  railway  for  support,  while  he 
stared  at  her  in  a  fascination  of  horror  and  remorse. 

She  drew  herself  up  before  him  with  something  of 
the  old  manner,  the  old  air.  The  years  dropped  away 
from  her  as  she  stood  there.  And  for  a  moment  to 
his  gaze  she  looked  as  on  that  day  in  the  path.  And 
for  a  moment  almost  he  loved  her! 

"  Do  you  see  what  I  am? "  she  went  on  after  a 
pause.  "  It's  written  all  over  me !  The  lowest  of  the 
low  on  God's  earth!  "  She  gasped  out  the  words 
brokenly  and  flung  one  last  bitter  phrase  at  him. 

"  And  you  did  it !  " 

Then  sihe  turned  to  leave  him. 

"  Stop!  "  called  the  priest  as  she  moved  away. 

He  sprang  forward  to  her  side.  He  grasped  her 
by  the  arm. 

"  Don't  touch  me! "  she  said  contemptuously 
dragging  herself  free  from  him  as  if  there  were  con- 
tamination in  his  touch.  "You  are  as  guilty  as  I! 
Don't  speak  to  me !  Whatever  I  am,  you  did  it !  " 

Two  days  after  that  the  Reverend  Alfred  Effing- 
ham,  whose  services  were  in  much  demand  on  similar 
occasions,  was  called  upon  to  bury  a  woman  who  had 
been  picked  up  out  of  the  North  River,  and  whose 
poor  body  had  been  reclaimed  from  the  morgue  by 
her  more  wretched  living  friends.  As  he  stood  by 
the  open  coffin  in  the  vulgar  commonness  of  the  pub- 
lic parlor  of  the  resort  where  she  had  lived,  the  pale 


284  The  Records 


cold  lips  seemed  to  whisper  up  at  him,  as  he  read 
such  words  from  the  Sacred  Book  of  Life  as  seemed 
appropriate  to  this  body  of  death. 
"  And  you  did  it !    You  did  it ! " 


Thirteenth  Record 

GRADUATES  OF  THE  SCHOOL* 

The  Daily  Gazette  was  at  once  the  worst  and  beet 
paper  in  New  York.  Incidentally,  it  was  also  the 
most  successful.  Whether  it  succeeded  because  it 
was  the  worst,  or  because  it  was  the  best,  was  a  ques- 
tion which  neither  the  proprietors  nor  the  public  had 
ever  been  able  to  solve.  There  was  sufficient  uncer- 
tainty about  it  to  render  it  inadvisable  either  to 
elevate  it  or  to  degrade  it,  so  long  as  it  continued  to 
succeed. 

Of  course  the  decision  as  to  the  character  of  a 
paper  depended  upon  the  point  of  view.  The  Gazette 
was  the  best  paper  in  that  it  gave  all  the  news  im- 
mediately, completely,  entirely,  sparing  no  expense 
to  collect  it  and  to  disseminate  it.  It  was  the 
worst  paper,  in  that  it  gave  the  widest  publicity 
to  the  latest  sensation,  criminal  or  otherwise, 
with  little  regard  to  the  canons  of  decency,  propriety 
and  journalistic  cleanliness.  Frequently,  with  pro- 
digious emphasis,  it  declared  that  to  be  a  fact  which 
probably  was,  and  which  was  soon  found  to  be,  un- 
true. All  newspapers  do  that,  but  not  with  the  same 
sensational  avidity  as  the  Gazette.  There  was  neither 

*By  courtesy  of  "  Lippincott's  Magazine." 


286  The  Records 


modesty  nor  self-restraint  in  its  make-up.  It  was 
the  "Yellowest"  of  the  so-called  "Yellow  Jour- 
nals." Its  editorial  columns  reflected  the  Jekyll  and 
Hyde  spirit  of  the  paper.  Sometimes  the  editorials 
were  clear,  logical,  forceful,  brilliant;  appealing  to 
the  very  highest.  At  other  times  false,  insincere, 
illogical,  specious,  sophistical;  appealing  to  the  very 
lowest. 

The  more  reputable  press  and  the  more  highly 
cultivated  public  opinion  of  the  city  reprehended  the 
Gazette;  but  everybody  bought  it,  read  it,  discussed  it 
— even  the  clergy.  In  any  trolley  or  elevated  car  at 
any  hour  of  the  day  there  were  to  be  seen  more 
readers  of  the  Gazette  than  of  all  the  other  papers 
in  New  York. 

Its  principal  rival  was  the  Union.  The  Union 
was  better  than  the  Gazette,  in  that  the  proportion  of 
good  to  bad  in  its  constitution  was  about  as  three  to 
one — in  the  Gazette  the  proportion  was  as  one  to  one. 
It  always  seemed  as  though  the  Union's  people  emu- 
lated the  policy  of  the  Gazette  and  imitated  that  sheet 
so  far  as  they  dared.  In  other  words,  a  lingering 
decency  or  a  grovelling  timidity  kept  them  from 
being  so  bad  as  they  might  have  been.  The  Union's 
circulation  bore  about  the  same  proportion  to  the 
circulation  of  the  Gazette,  only  in  an  inverse  ratio, 
as  its  morals  did ;  which  is  a  severe  reflection  on  New 
York.  The  existence1  of  both  papers  was  a  reflection 
on  New  York  for  that  matter.  But  let  that  pass. 
The  Gazette  was  the  apotheosis  of  journalistic  sharp 
practice,  the  Union  was  a  feeble  imitation  thereof. 


Graduates  of  the  School  287 

!N"ot  being  so  bad  as  its  rival,  the  Union  naturally 
mistook  weakness  and  timidity  for  virtue  and  prided 
itself  on  its  morals! 

Like  sin,  there  was  something  in  the  atmosphere 
of  the  Gazette  that  was  intensely  contagious.  It  was 
a  marvel  how  the  editor-in-chief  thereof  managed  to 
keep  even  half  of  his  editorials  above  suspicion. 
Everybody  who  worked  for  the  paper  fell  under  the 
blighting  spirit  of  its  methods.  In  its  pursuit  for 
news  nothing  was  sacred,  no  advantage  was  neg- 
lected. Facts  were  obtained  and  told  no  matter  what 
the  consequences.  If  there  were  no  facts  the  lack 
was  supplied  by  manufacture.  The  reporters,  the 
various  editors,  the  pressmen,  even  the  newsboys,  all 
felt  and  succumbed  to  the  noxious  influence  of  the 
paper.  It  had  outgrown  any  mere  human  control. 
Its  policy  was  become  as  irresistible  as  that  of  Rus- 
sia, and  its  editorial  autocrats  were  as  submissive  to  it 
as  is  the  Czar  to  his  huge  empire.  The  monster  ob- 
sessed them,  the  virus  in  its  veins  contaminated  their 
own  blood  with  the  peculiar  ichor  like  to  poison; 
reversing  the  fabulous  conduct  of  the  pelican  toward 
its  young,  the  offspring  of  the  Gazette  finally  turned 
upon  it  and  strove  to  rend  it  for  their  own  greed; 
usually  being  rent  themselves  in  the  process. 

This  profoundly  philosophical  conclusion  had  not 
entered  the  mind  of  Hollister.  Hollister  could  re- 
member the  Gazette  when  neither  he  nor  it  was  big 
enough  or  important  enough  to  attract  anybody's 
notice.  He  had  begun  as  a  "  printer's  devil  "  when 
he  constituted  one-eighth  of  the  entire  force.  He 


288  The  Records 


had  risen  with,  the  Gazette  until  now  he  was  a 
reporter  on  its  staff  earning  forty  dollars  a  week. 

He  was  familiar  with  its  methods,  with  its  ideas, 
with  its  principles.  He  was  a  part  of  it,  and  it 
was  a  part  of  him.  If  there  was  anything  partic- 
ularly disreputable  in  the  reportorial  line  which  re- 
quired address,  finesse,  courage,  persistence,  and  a 
brutal  disregard  of  private  right,  Hollister  did  it. 
He  had  talent  in  plenty,  even  genius,  and  he  was 
dissatisfied  with  his  present  position.  Not  because 
he  disliked  to  do  the  things  that  fell  to  his  lot,  but 
because  there  was  not  enough  money  in  it  for  him. 
Like  the  paper,  Hollister  was  out  for  the  material 
reward  every  time.  As  he  phrased  it,  he  was 
not  working  for  his  health.  He  perceived 
that  his  talents  were  not  appreciated.  His 
growing  dissatisfaction  stimulated  him  to  action  at 
last.  After  much  cogitation  he  determined  upon  a 
grand  coup  for  which  he  planned  with  remarkable 
astuteness. 

One  morning  he  presented  himself  to  Mr.  Wilder, 
the  managing  editor,  and  handed  in  his  resignation. 
People  as  a  rule  did  not  last  long  on  the  Gazette. 
They  were  either  too  strong  to  stand  it  and  left,  or 
they  were  too  weak  to  be  of  service  to  it  and  were  dis- 
missed; but  Hollister  was  a  fixture.  He  had  been 
there  before  Mr.  Wilder  himself,  and  such  a  thing  as 
the  Gazette  without  Hollister  seemed  preposterous! 
Yet  there  was  his  resignation.  In  the  case  of  any- 
one else  it  would  have  been  accepted  instantly,  but 
with  Hollister  it  was  different.  There  was  some- 


Graduates  of  the  School  289 

thing  so  unusual,  so  peculiar,  in  the  situation,  that 
Wilder  discussed  it  with  Hollister. 

"  Look  here,  Hollister,"  he  said  with  incredulous 
surprise ;  "  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  are 
resigning  from  the  Gazette  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Wilder." 

"  What's  the  matter?  Haven't  we  treated  you 
right?" 

"  You've  treated  me  well  enough,  but — "  an- 
swered Hollister  promptly. 

"  Don't  you  like  the  work  you  do? "  interrupted 
the  managing  editor.  "  Aren't  your  associations 
pleasant?  Isn't  everything  agreeable?" 

"  Entirely." 

"  Why  are  you  leaving  then?  Would  sixty  dollars 
a  week  keep  you? " 

"  No,  it  wouldn't." 

"  Well,  what's  the  matter?  " 

"  The  truth  is  that  Mr.  Hanson " 

At  this  Mr.  Wilder  pricked  up  his  ears.  Hanson 
was  the  new  owner  of  the  Union.  He  had  recently 
bought  the  paper  and  it  was  rumored  that  he  in- 
tended to  dispute  the  supremacy  of  the  Gazette  by 
making  use  of  the  latter  journal's  methods,  and 
where  he  could  do  so,  of  the  latter  journal's  men. 

"  Mr.  Hanson,"  went  on  Hollister  coolly,  "  who 
used  to  know  me  back  in  Illinois  when  I  was  a  kid, 
before  I  came  to  New  York,  you  know,  and  who  has 
been  watching  my  work,  'asked  me  to  be  the  Sunday 
Editor  of  the  Union." 

"What!"  cried  Wilder. 


290  The  Records 


"  A  fact,  I  assure  you,"  said  the  younger  man 
gravely. 

"  How  much  does  he  offer  you?  " 

"  Ten  thousand  a  year,"  returned  Hollister  calmly. 

"  Whew!  "  exclaimed  Wilder. 

"  So  you  see,"  went  on  the  reporter  with  all  the 
cool  assurance  of  his  class,  "  while  I  like  you  all  and 
shall  be  awfully  sorry  to  leave  the  Gazette  I  can't  af- 
ford to  refuse  an  offer  like  that  for  a  forty-dollar-a- 
week  reporter's  job,  or  even  for  the  sixty  dollars 
which  you  so  generously  offered  me  a  minute  ago, 
which  was  very  kind  of  you.  Hence  my  resignation. 
Will  you  see  that  it  is  accepted  at  once,  sir?  " 

"  Hold  on  a  minute,  Hollister!  "  said  Wilder.  "  I 
don't  mind  telling  you  that  Maxey,  our  Sunday 
Editor,  isn't  quite  up  to  the  mark.  He's  let  a  lot  of 
chances  get  by  him  for  good  stuff  that's  gone  else- 
where, and  the  Sunday  edition  doesn't  quite  average 
up  to  the  rest  of  the  Gazette's  sales.  Now,  if  I  make 
you  an  offer  of,  say,  one  thousand  dollars  a  month, 
twelve  thousand  a  year,  wouldn't  you  just  as  soon 
stay  with  us  as  go  over  to  the  Union  ?  " 

"  Frankly,  Mr.  Wilder,  I'd  very  much  rather  stay 
here  than  go  anywhere.  I  would  have  stayed  here 
for  less  than  the  Union  offered  me,  but  now  it's  too 
late,"  answered  Hollister,  his  pulses  bounding. 

"  Too  late?    How's  that?  " 

"  I  saw  Mr.  Hanson  yesterday  and  told  him  that 
as  soon  as  I  resigned  from  here  I  would  accept  his 
offer." 


Graduates  of  the  School  291 

"  Well,  you  haven't  resigned.  That  is,  your 
resignation  isn't  accepted  and " 

"  Well,  I  might  get  out  of  the  thing  on  that 
technicality,"  returned  Hollister  meekly;  "  but  it 
doesn't  seem  exactly  square.  We  of  the  Gazette  have 
to  exhibit  an  example  of  honest  and  honorable  jour- 
nalism to  the  world,  you  know,  sir.  You  taught  us 
that  yourself." 

That  fiction  about  honorable  journalism  was  one 
of  the  Shibboleths  of  the!  Gazette,  and,  although  both 
Hollister  and  Wilder  knew  it  to  be  a  lie,  they  both 
nodded  gravely  as  if  it  were  a  settled  thing,  which 
no  contingency  or  emergency  could  disturb. 

"  Of  course,  of  course,"  'answered  Wilder.  "  I 
see.  You're  quite  right." 

His  agreement  was  so  hearty  that,  for  the  mo- 
ment, Holister's  confidence  in  the  success  of  his 
scheme  failed  him,  and  something  like  consternation 
came  into  his  breast.  However,  he  said  nothing. 
Mr.  Wilder,  after  a  momentary  hesitation,  finally 
rose. 

"  Just  wait  here,  Hollister,"  he  said  leaving  the 
room. 

He  had  a  brief  conversation  in  the  private  office 
with  McKirk,  the  owner  of  the  paper.  To  this  con- 
sultation the  editor-in-chief  was  summoned.  It  was 
promptly  decided  that  if  Hollister  was  worth  ten 
thousand  dollars  to  the  Union  he  must  be  worth 
twelve  thousand  to  the  Gazette.  He  must  be  retained 
at  all  hazards. 

"  What  will  become  of  Maxey?  "  asked  the  editor- 


292  The  Records 


in-chief,  who,  because  half  of  his  editorials  were 
good,  really  had  some  conscience  left. 

"  He'll  have  to  go,"  said  the  owner  briefly  and  in- 
differently, "  a  man  who  can't  keep  up  with  the  pro- 
cession has  no  place  on  our  paper.  We  want  only 
the  best  all  the  time." 

Unless  Maxey  had  been  prudent  and  had  laid  aside 
something  for  his  old  age,  this  doomed  him  to  beg- 
gary, for  no  one  who  was  discharged  from  the  Gazette 
could  ever  find  employment  on  any  other  paper, 
especially  if  he  had  been  identified  long  enough  with 
that  paper  to  have  imbibed  its  pernicious  methods. 
But  that  was  a  matter  of  small  moment  to  anybody 
on  the  Gazette.  Everyone  who  worked  for  the  paper 
realized  the  state  of  affairs  and  only  entered  its  ser- 
vice because  of  the  extravagance  of  its  salaries  while 
they  lasted. 

"  I  have  consulted  the  '  old  man,'  "  said  Wilder 
after  he  returned  to  Hollister,  "  and  he  says  that 
my  tentative  offer  holds  good.  If  you  can  get  your 
release  from  Hanson  we'll  give  you  twelve  thousand 
a  year  to  act  as  Editor  of  our  Sunday  edition." 

"  I'm  afraid  it's  no  go,"  said  Hollister  with  well 
simulated  dejection. 

"  At  least  you  can  try  it,"  urged  Wilder. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  I  can."  He  pulled  out  his  watch. 
"  I'm  going  to  lunch  with  Mr.  Hanson  this  afternoon 
at  half  after  one,  it's  almost  that  now.  If  he'll  let 
me  off,  all  right.  If  he  won't — I  wish  you  had 
spoken  earlier,  but,  really ' 

"  I'll  have  the  contract  drawn  up  any  way,  Hoi- 


"Well,  sir?"  asked   Mr.  Wilder, 
expectantly.— Page  293 


Graduates  of  the  School  293 

lister,"  said  Wilder  briskly.  "  We  don't  want  to  lose 
you,"  lie  added  with  flattering  emphasis  on  the  last 
word. 

"  Thank  you,  sir.  Good  morning,"  returned  Hoi- 
lister,  going  out  sadly  as  if  overwhelmed  with  fear 
that  Hanson  would  not  release  him. 

After  giving  instructions  as  to  the  drawing  up  of 
the  contract  a  sudden  thought  struck  Mr.  Wilder. 
He  hastily  summoned  one  of  his  confidential  clerks. 

"  Mr.  Richards,"  he  said  quickly  to  him,  "  you 
know  Mr.  Hollister  of  course? " 

"  Certainly,  sir." 

"  He's  going  to  lunch  with  Mr.  Hanson  of  the 
Union  at  half  after  one.  I  want  you  to  follow  him 
wherever  he  goes,  without  being  seen  yourself,  of 
course.  Don't  let  him  escape  your  observation  for  a 
moment,  and  let  me  know  as  soon  as  you  can  just 
what  his  movements  are  till  he  gets  back  here." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

About  half  after  two  o'clock  Hollister  came  back 
to  the  office  of  the  Gazette,  'and  presented  himself  to 
the  managing  editor. 

"  Well,  sir?  "  asked  Mr.  Wilder  expectantly. 

"  I  am  happy  to  say,"  said  Hollister  pleasantly, 
"  that  Mr.  Hanson  most  kindly  released  me." 

"Good!" 

"  He  said  he  wouldn't  stand  in  my  light  and " 

"Here  are  the  yearly  contracts,"  said  Wilder  hand- 
ing them  over.  He  was  very  busy  and  he  had  no 
time  to  waste  in  useless  discussion.  The  thing  was 
settled  and  he  wanted  to  get  rid  of  it.  "  They  have 


294  The  Records 


been  signed  on  our  part.  All  you  have  to  do  is  to 
sign  them  and  the  thing's  done." 

Hastily  looking  them  over  to  see  that  they  were 
in  order  Hollister  affixed  his  signature,  and  im- 
mediately received  the  congratulations  of  the  manag- 
ing editor. 

"  You  can  occupy  Mr.  Maxey's  office  at  once,"  said 
that  functionary. 

"  Has  he  been  notified?  " 

"  He  hasn't  come  down  yet,  but  I'll  have  him  in- 
formed just  as  soon  as  he  enters  the  building.  As 
it's  Thursday  now  and  getting  late  you'd  better  jump 
in  and  take  a  look  at  the  make-up  of  next  Sunday's 
paper.  I  shall  not  expect  much  from  you  for  the  first 
week,  you  understand,  but  there  must  be  a  marked 
improvement  after  that!  " 

"  There  will  be,"  answered  Hollister  confidently, 
bowing  himself  out. 

As  he  did  so  Mr.  Wilder  suddenly  recollected  the 
errand  upon  which  he  had  despatched  his  confidential 
clerk.  Ringing  the  bell  he  asked  the  messenger  if 
Mr.  Richards  had  returned. 

"  Not  yet,  sir,"  was  the  answer,  but  while  the 
messenger  was  speaking,  Richards,  out  of  breath, 
burst  unceremoniously  into  the  office. 

"  Richards,"  said  Wilder  sternly,  "  you're  late.  I 
told  you  to  report  to  me  on  Mr.  Hollister's  move- 
ments immediately  he  returned.  He  has  been  here 
for  the  last  ten  minutes.  You  should  have  preceded 
him." 

"  He  fooled  me,  sir!  "  gasped  out  Richards.    "  He 


Graduates  of  the  School  295 

got  into  a  cab  and  got  out  on  the  other  side,  and  I 
followed  the  cab  until  it  stopped  before  I  found 
out " 

"  So  you  allowed  yourself  to  be  taken  in  by  that 
stale  old  trick,  did  you? "  sneered  Wilder.  "  Urn! 
Well,  what  have  you  to  report?  " 

"  Hollister  went  down  to  the  Park  Row  restaurant 
after  he  left  you " 

"  Ah!     And  lunched  with  Mr.  Hanson?  " 

"  No,  sir,  he  lunched  alone." 

"  He  did?    Didn't  he  see  Mr.  Hanson?  " 

"  He  didn't  see  anyone.  He  sat  there  in  the 
restaurant  smoking  a  cigar  and  reading  a  paper  after 
lunch  until  after  two." 

"  Are  you  sure  ?  " 

"  Perfectly  sure.  I  had  him  under  observation 
until  he  took  the  cab." 

"  You  are  sure  that  Hollister  didn't  observe  you?  " 

"  I  think  not,  sir." 

"  You  think  not !  The  Gazette  pays  people  like 
you  to  know,  not  to  think!  It  is  perfectly  evident 
that  he  did  see  you  and  that  he  gave  you  the  slip  in 
order  to  get  here  ten  minutes  before  you.  That  ten 
minutes  was  enough,  sir!  We've  been  swindled, 
robbed!  It's  outrageous!  And  it's  all  due  to  you! 
The  cashier  will  make  out  your  time.  We  don't  want 
you  any  longer." 

"  This  will  make  a  very  pleasant  story  to  tell  the 
Union,  for  instance,  won't  it?  "  said  Richards  coolly 
and  bravely.  "  And  there  are  other  things  that  I 
can  tell.  I  haven't  been  your  private  secretary  and 


296  The  Records 


confidential  clerk  for  the  last  two  years  without 
knowing  something  about  this  paper,  Mr.  Wilder." 

"Well,  I'll  be  damned!"  ejaculated  Wilder 
furious  with  rage.  "  I  won't  have  you  around  me 
another  minute !  Get  out  of  here !  " 

"  You  don't  have  to  have  me  around  here,  Mr. 
Wilder,  but  you  won't  fire  me,  nevertheless,  I  think. 
There's  that  Washington  correspondent's  position 
that  I've  wanted  so  long." 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  said  Wilder  savagely.  A  mo- 
mentary reflection  had  convinced  him  of  the  strength 
of  Richards'  position.  It  was  impregnable  for  the 
present.  So,  too,  he  realized  as  his  eyes  fell  upon 
the  contracts,  was  Hollister's!  I'll  see  that  you  get 
it  then,"  he  added,  "  but  you  won't  hold  it  very 
long,"  he  muttered  under  his  breath  as  he  went  out. 
"  And  as  for  you,  Mr.  Hollister,  I'll  fix  you!  Think 
of  it!  And  I  trained  both  these  men  myself!  " 

The  next  thing  he  did  was  to  take  the  elevator  and 
repair  to  the  office  of  the  proprietor.  To  him  he  told 
the  whole  story  regarding  both  Hollister  and 
Richards. 

"Umph!"  said  McKirk,  "pretty  bad,  isn't  it? 
But  after  all,  Wilder,  both  these  youngsters  got  the 
better  of  you,  and  Hollister  got  the  better  of  me  and 
the  editor-in-chief,  too,  and  we're  the  finest  news- 
paper men  in  New  York,  I  take  it.  Pretty  shrewd 
of  them.  They're  a  pair  of  rascals,  but  if  they're 
smart  enough  for  that  I  guess  we  haven't  done  so 
badly  after  all  in  retaining  them.  They're  the  kind 
of  men  we  want  on  the  Gazette." 


Fourteenth  Record 

\ 

THE    MATCHMAKER* 


Molly  Clancy  was  blessed  among  women  in  that 
she  had  a  greater  number  of  lovers  than  usually  fall 
to  a  single  member  of  the  ruling  sex.  To  be  strictly 
accurate,  she  had  ninety-six  adorers  who  were  all 
passionately  devoted  to  her  and  were  spoiling  for 
a  chance  to  die  for  her! 

The  overwhelming  number  of  captives  to  Molly's 
bow  and  spear  was  not  due  altogether  to  the 
preeminence  or  unusualness  of  Molly's  char- 
acteristics, physical  or  mental,  although  in  neither 
case  were  these  to  be  despised.  It  was  the  uni- 
versal testimony  that  Molly  was  as  "  pretty  as  they 
made  'em,"  and  as  "  smart  as  a  whip."  It  must 
be  'allowed  that  the  testimony  was  not  impartial. 
The  testifiers  were  biased — prejudiced.  Their  af- 
fection blinded  their  judgment  for  this  reason; 
Molly  Clancy  was  the  solitary  unmarried  white 
woman  within  a  radius  of  two  hundred  and  fifty 
miles,  and  the  unmarried  troopers  of  the  little  two- 
company  post  were  hers  to  a  man! 

Those  few  women  who  were  to  be  found  at  iso- 

*By  courtesy  of  "  The  Illustrated  Sporting  News." 


298  The  Records 


lated  spots  in  the  circumference  of  a  circle  in  which 
Fort  Grummond  was  the  centre,  did  not  compare 
with  Molly;  and  this  may  be  admitted  without 
any  disparagement  of  their  qualities,  because  they 
were  all  married.  The  Colonel's  wife,  the  wife  of 
the  senior  captain,  and  the  blushing  bride — heroic 
woman  who  had  left  the  comforts  and  luxuries  of 
an  Eastern  home  to  be  the  wife  of  the  junior  second 
lieutenant,  the  youngest  officer  to  divide  his  affections 
between  Mars  and  Venus — did  not  count  with  the 
troopers;  could  not  and  would  not  have  counted  save 
as  divinities  to  be  worshipped  at  a  distance,  on  ac- 
count of  the  difference  in  rank  even  if  they  had  not 
been  married.  There  were  no  differences  in  rank  in 
the  case  of  the  three  or  four  old  campaigners,  wives 
of  the  sergeants,  but  they  were  eliminated  from  the 
game  by  the  wearing  of  the  magic  circlet  on  the 
ring  finger  of  the  heart  hand. 

A  superficial  opinion  might  be  that  Molly's  sin- 
gle blessedness,  the  fact  that  she  was  the  only  un- 
married woman  in  the  post,  was  a  reflection  upon 
her  charms;  yet  no  one  who  knew  the  state  of  af- 
fairs, who  saw  Molly  on  her  afternoons  out — she 
had  insisted  upon  "  city  ways  "  even  in  the  wilder- 
ness— surrounded  by  "  honor,  love,  obedience,"  and 
troops  of  soldiers,  could  entertain  that  opinion  for 
a  moment. 

"  My  dear,"  said  the  Colonel  to  his  wife,  "  why 
doesn't  that  girl  get  married?  She's  disorganizing 
the  whole  command!  I  never  saw  anything  like 
it.  She  came  down  the  walk  last  night  at  dress 


The  Matchmaker  299 

parade  leading  Captain  Smith's  baby.  You  should 
have  seen  the  eyes  of  the  men  follow  her  as  she 
trotted  along.  You'd  have  thought  somebody  at 
the  end  of  the  line  had  shouted,  '  Right  dress ! '  as 
she  turned  the  flank,  and  such  a  ragged  manual  as 
they  put  up  I  never  saw!  I  wish  she  would  get 
married  and  have  done  with  it." 

"  My  dear,"  said  the  Colonel's  wife  soothingly, 
"  what  would  we  do  if  she  left  us?  You  know  she 
is  the  best  cook,  the  best  laundress,  the  best  every- 
thing, at  the  post  and  the. only  one  as  well.  I  don't 
see  how  we  could  get  along  without  her." 

"  No,  I  suppose  not,"  said  the  Colonel;  "but  I 
wish  the  men's  opinions  as  to  her  qualities  were  not 
so  unanimous.  Gad!  if  this  disorganization  doesn't 
stop  I'll  put  her  in  the  guard  house  and  deprive 
the  whole  command  of  the  sight  of  her!  Murphy 
and  Schlitzer  were  up  before  me  last  week  for 
fighting  down  behind  the  mule  corral.  When  I 
asked  them  what  was  the  matter,  Murphy  stammered 
out  in  his  delicious  brogue :  '  We  had  a  little  dif- 
ference of  opeenion,  sor,  about  a  leddy,  sor.'  And 
Schlitzer  rolled  his  blue  eyes  under  his  blond  hair 
and  muttered,  '  Yah,  mein  Herr  Colonel,  dot  ish  so! ' 
I'm  disgusted  with  the  whole  lot!  I  swore  that  if 
anybody  else  was  caught  fighting  about  Molly  Clancy 
he  should  be  forbidden  to  speak  to  her  for  the  space 
of  four  calendar  weeks!  " 

"  Mercy!  "  laughed  his  wife,  "  that  is  a  dreadful 
punishment,  John." 

"  Cornelia,"  remarked  the  Colonel  gravely,  "  this 


300  The  Records 


is  no  laughing  matter.  Molly  must  get  married, 
or,  at  least,  she  must  make  a  choice  between  the 
men  of  the  command." 

"  Are  you  going  to  turn  matchmaker?  " 

"  Well,  there  aren't  many  things  a  man  can  do, 
or  a  woman,  either,  that  the  commander  of  a  two- 
company  post  in  the  wilds  of  Wyoming  doesn't 
have  to  do  sooner  or  later,"  replied  the  grizzled 
old  warrior  smiling;  "  and  I'm  going  to  try  my  hand 
at  this.  Who  is  the  most  likely  candidate?  " 

"  Oh,  you're  willing  to  take  advice,  are  you?  " 
asked  his  wife. 

"  Not  only  advice,  my  dear,  but  orders,  from 
you,"  returned  the  old  man,  giving  his  wife  a  rare 
and  much-valued  caress. 

"  I  think  that  O'Brien  has  the  inside  track,"  said 
the  Colonel's  wife  reflectively. 

"  That's  good!  He's  the  only  unmarried  ser- 
geant, and  he's  entitled  to  a  wife  if  he  wants  one." 

"  He  wants  Molly  certainly." 

"  He  shall  have  her,  or  I'm  not  commander  of 
this  regiment.  O'Brien  is  a  steady,  faithful  sol- 
dier, and  if  we  ever  get  a  regiment  together  again 
I  am  going  to  make  him  Sergeant-Major  at  the  first 
opportunity.  He  can  support  a  wife  all  right.  I 
will  engage  Molly  to  him." 

"  And  what  will  we  do?  " 

"  I'll  order  the  wedding  put  off  until  we  get  an- 
other girl  out  from  the  States  in  the  spring.  Con- 
found it!  I  suppose  love  can  wait  for  duty  for  that 
length  of  time,  can't  it?  " 


The  Matchmaker  301 

"  You  wouldn't  wait  when  we " 

"  Oh,  we're  different,"  returned  the  Colonel 
promptly. 

"  Well,  it's  a  very  nice  plan,"  said  his  wife;  "  but 
how  are  you  going  to  bring  it  about? " 

"  Madam,"  asked  the  Colonel  loftily,  "  am  I  the 
commander  of  this  post  or  not?  " 

"  You  are  with — er — certain  reservations." 

"  Quite  right,  my  dear.  You  are  the  only  reser- 
vation and  I  have  enlisted  you  on  my  side.  Molly 
loves  O'Brien,  O'Brien  loves  her.  The  thing  is 
simple.  I  will  detail  O'Brien  for  the  marriage 
ceremony,  square  the  thing  with  Molly,  get  the 
Bishop  to  bring  up  his  canonicals,  turn  out  the  com- 
mand, and  there  you  are!  " 

"  A  very  pretty  programme ;  but  how  to  '  square 
Molly,'  is  the  question." 

"  Oh,  leave  that  to  me ;  I'll  manage  that,"  re- 
turned the  Colonel  calmly. 

"  And — er — there  is  another  thing." 

"  Hey!  "  exclaimed  the  Colonel.    "  What!  " 

"It  isn't  'what.'  It's  'who.'  There's  young 
Stevenson." 

"Well,  I'll  be  blessed!  You  don't  mean  to  tell 
me  that  Stevenson,  the  most  unruly  trooper  in  this 
command,  is  going  to  oppose  the  will  of  his  com- 
manding officer?  If  I  hear  anything  from  him  I'll 
detail  him  for  the  best  man!  I'm  sick  and  tired  of 
all  this  foolishness!  "  muttered  the  Colonel. 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  said  his  wife,  "  you  know  best, 
of  course.  This  is  a  matter  of  hearts,  not  disci- 


302  The  Records 


pline;  but  have  your  way.  When  are  you  going  to 
begin?  " 

"Now.     Where  is  Molly?" 

"  It's  her  afternoon  out.  To-morrow  is  Christ- 
mas, and  we  shall  need  her  for  the  tree,  you  know. 
I  let  her  go  to-day  instead.  She  said  she  wanted 
to  take  a  little  walk." 

"  She  hasn't  gone  outside  the  stockade,  has  she? " 
asked  the  Colonel  anxiously.  "  You  know  the  In- 
dians have  been  about  us  all  week.  They  made 
another  attempt  to  stampede  the  mules  last  night." 

"  They  are  always  about  us,"  sighed  his  wife,  look- 
ing very  grave.  "  I  wish  we  could  get  another  detail 
and " 

"  There,  there,  my  dear!  "  said  the  Colonel, 
gently,  "  somebody  has  to  stay  here,  and  why  not 
we?  Besides,  we  are  sent  here,  and  here  we  must  re- 
main. About  the  Christmas  tree — is  everything 
ready? " 

"  I  think  so.  We  are  going  to  have  it  in  the  new 
Commissary  Building  which  has  not  been  used  yet. 
First,  the  children  will  get  their  things,  and  after 
that  we  have  something  for  each  one  of  the  troopers. 
Is  there  anybody  in  the  guard  house? " 

"  No  one.  There  were  three  this  morning.  Mur- 
phy and  Schlitzer  got  out  to-day  and  I  released  the 
third  man." 

"Who  was  he?" 

"  Stevenson.  He  had  been  very  insolent  to 
O'Brien." 

"  About  Molly,  I  suppose." 


The  Matchmaker  303 

"  Yes.  I  let  him  out  because  to-morrow  is  Christ- 
mas." 

"  How  sweet  of  you,"  said  his  wife,  coming  nearer 
to  the  Colonel  and  leaning  her  head  against  his 
shoulder. 

"  Very  foolish  of  me,"  said  the  practical  warrior, 
greatly  pleased  with  his  wife's  approval.  "  I  spoil 
the  men  to  death,  I'm  sure."  / 

"  And  they  adore  you,"  said  his  wife  softly. 

The  day  had  opened  pleasantly.  There  was  a 
light  snow  on  the  ground  from  the  day  before,  but 
the  morning  had  been  clear  though  very  cold.  As 
the  day  wore  on  the  sky  became  more  and  more 
overcast,  until  as  the  Colonel  stepped  out  of  his 
headquarters  late  in  the  afternoon  there  was  every 
indication  of  a  fierce  winter  storm. 

Well,  there  was  no  reason  for  apprehension  or 
alarm  in  that.  The  fort  was  situated  on  a  little 
plateau  on  the  top  of  a  good  sized  hill.  It  was 
strongly  palisaded  with  logs,  and  the  officers' 
quarters  and  men's  barracks,  though  rude  as  pos- 
sible in  appearance,  being  built  of  rough  pine  logs, 
were  warm  and  comfortable.  The  fort  was  well 
provisioned  and  the  storm  would  keep  the  Indians 
away  so  that  they  could  enjoy  Christmas  undis- 
turbed. 

As  the  Colonel  stood  on  the  porch  a  man  of  an 
erect  military  figure,  although  his  legs  were  slightly 
bowed,  showing  that  he  was  a  cavalryman,  came 
running  up  the  wall  toward  the  porch  at  a  very  un- 
military  pace.  He  halted  abruptly  before  his  com- 


304  The  Records 


manding  officer,  saluted  mechanically,  and  gasped 
out  in  response  to  the  other's  nod: 

"  Beggin'  the  Colonel's  pardon,  sor,  but  have  ye 
seen  Molly  Clancy? " 

"  My  God !  "  ejaculated  the  Colonel  in  deep  dis- 
gust, "  you  don't  suppose  I  keep  watch  on  Molly,  do 
you?  What  do  you  mean,  O'Brien?  What's  the 
matter  with  you?  " 

"  Beggin'  the  Colonel's  pardon,  sor,"  said  the  sol- 
dier, "  but  I've  searched  through  the  post,  sor,  an' 
she's  nowhere  to  be  found." 

"  What!  "  exclaimed  the  Colonel,  instantly  on  the 
alert.  "  After  my  positive  orders?  " 

"  Wimmin  like  Molly  Clancy,  sor,  don't  obey  no 
orders,  'ceptin'  their  own,  sor,"  remarked  O'Brien, 
who  knew  more  of  the  devious  feminine  way  than  his 
superior  officer  apparently. 

"  They  don't,  eh?  "  said  the  Colonel  grimly;  a  well, 
I'll  see  about  that." 

"  Me  an'  Molly  had  some  wur-rds  this  afternoon, 
sor,"  faltered  O'Brien,  then  he  hesitated,  not  know- 
ing how  far  he  might  presume  upon  his  Colonel's 
complaisance. 

"  Go  on,  man,  go  on !  By  gad !  since  I  came  to 
this  post  four-fifths  of  my  time  has  been  taken  up  in- 
vestigating quarrels  between  the  men  about  that  con- 
founded female!  What  is  it?  " 

"  We  had  some  wur-rds,  sor,  an'  I — she  was  for- 
bid by  me  to  go  beyant  the  stockade." 

"  Oh!  She  had  your  orders  as  well  as  mine,  had 
she?" 


The  Matchmaker  305 

"  Yis,  sor,"  answered  O'Brien  gravely. 

"  And  what  right  had  you  to  give  orders  to  her, 
pray?  " 

"  Her  an'  me  is  ingaged,  sor,  if  the  Colonel 
plazes." 

"  He  does  please.    Go  on!  " 

"  An'  we're  goin'  to  git  married  in  the  spring,  sor, 
w'en  the  Colonel  gits  another  gur-rl,  sor,  if  he  wants 
wan." 

"  He  wants  a  one-eyed,  pock-marked,  hump-backed 
one  the  next  time,"  said  the  Colonel  sarcastically. 

"  Yis,  sor;  but  I  misdoot  that  aven  that  kind  might 
be  in  de-mand  out  here,  sor." 

"  I  suppose  so." 

"  Well,  sor,  me  an'  Molly  is  ingaged  an'  we  don't 
let  onybody  know  it." 

"  Evidently." 

"  Because  Molly  is  havin'  too  good  a  time,  she 
sez.  The  Colonel  knows  how  it  is  wid  a  woman, 
sor.  Everything  has  to  give  way,  sor." 

"  Tim — yes,"  said  the  Colonel  reflectively,  think- 
ing of  certain  domestic  experiences  of  his  own. 

"  But  there's  wan  thing  I'll  not  stand,  an'  I  told 
her  she'd  got  to  guv  up  that  dirty  English  spal- 
peen Stevenson — beggin'  the  Colonel's  pardon,  sor. 
She  said  she  had  an  ingagemint  with  him  this  after- 
noon, sor,  an'  she'd  do  as  she  plazed,  an'  I  had  to 
go  down  to  me  stables,  an'  now  I  can't  find  her  ony 
place,  sor." 

"  Have  you  searched  the  post?  " 

"  Yis,  sor." 


306  The  Records 


"  And  the  corral?  " 

"  Yis,  sor." 

"  And  the  sergeants'  cabins?  " 

"  Yis,  sor." 

"  Orderly,"  called  the  Colonel  sharply,  "  send  me 
the  Sergeant  of  the  Guard.  "  Sergeant,"  he  con- 
tinued a  few  moments  after  as  that  functionary  pre- 
sented himself,  "  did  Molly  Clancy  and  Trooper 
Stevenson  leave  the  post  this  afternoon  by  any  of  the 
gates? " 

"  No,  sir." 

"  How  do  you  know?  " 

"  Sergeant  O'Brien  asked  me,  sir,  a  while  ago,  and 
I  made  inquiry.  But  a  teamster  in  the  other  corral 
says  he  saw  them  going  over  the  stockade  where  the 
wagons  are  parked." 

"  My  God!  "  exclaimed  O'Brien. 

"  When  they  come  back,"  said  the  Colonel,  "  put 
Stevenson  in  the  guard  house,  Christmas  or  no 
Christmas,  and  send  Molly  Clancy  to  me." 

"  Colonel,  for  God's  love,  sor,  lemme  go  out  an' 
look  for  'em,  sor!  "  cried  O'Brien,  "  gimme  a  squad 
of  men,  sor,  an " 

The  Colonel  looked  very  serious. 

"  In  your  present  state,  O'Brien,  you  would  prob- 
ably kill  Stevenson  if  you  caught  him.  Besides,  who 
knows  where  they  have  gone  ? " 

"  The  teamster  says  they  had  their  skates,  sir," 
said  the  Sergeant  of  the  Guard. 

"  Then  they  will  be  down  under  the  bluffs  by  the 
Big  Piney.  Send  a  corporal  and  four  men  down  to 


The  Matchmaker  307 

the  creek  to  look  them  up.  Let  Jefferson  go,  he's  a 
good,  steady  man.  See  that  their  carbines  are  all 
right,  and  tell  them  not  to  get  too  far  away.  It's 
snowing,  and  looks  threatening.  I  suppose  the  In- 
dians we  heard  last  night  have  gone  back  to  their 
lodges  now.  They're  not  apt  to  stay  out  in  a  storm 
like  this.  O'Brien,  come  with  me.  Pull  yourself  to- 
gether, man.  Come  up  to  the  observatory  tower. 
Sergeant,  report  to  me  as  soon  as  you  get  any  news." 


n 


Somehow  or  other  it  had  become  known  that 
Molly  Clancy  and  Stevenson  were  missing.  The  men 
swarmed  out  of  their  quarters  and  clustered  around 
the  gates  or  gathered  in  little  knots  on  the  parade, 
discussing  the  situation.  Jefferson  and  his  squad 
of  four  went  out  of  the  south  gate  in  a  hurry.  They 
ran  along  the  stockade  until  they  came  to  the  place 
where  the  two  had  climbed  over.  Their  trail  was 
plain.  They  turned  and  followed  it  on  the  run. 

Poor  Molly  Clancy,  resenting  the  Sergeant's 
authoritative  tone  in  a  spirit  of  feminine  bravado,  had 
deliberately  disobeyed  the  Colonel's  orders  and  her 
intended  husband's  as  well,  and  had  gone  down  to 
the  Piney  with  the  reckless  and  insubordinate 
Stevenson,  who  would  cheerfully  have  gone  through 
hell  itself  to  be  with  Molly.  Molly  hadn't  got  a  yard 
away  from  the  fort  when  she  began  to  feel  sorry,  and 
she  felt  sorrier  and  sorrier  as  she  went  along.  Still 


308  The  Records 


she  went!  Pride,  with  Stevenson's  subtle  and  per- 
suasive assistance,  kept  her  from  reconsidering  her 
intention  and  turning  back. 

The  wind  had  swept  the  snow  from  the  ice,  and 
Molly  dearly  loved  to  skate.  There  was  no  better 
skater  in  the  fort  than  Stevenson.  The  creek  near 
the  fort  broadened  out  under  the  bluff  into  a  small 
pond.  They  skated  to  and  fro  for  a  little  while,  until 
Stevenson  seated  Molly  on  a  fallen  log  and  began  to 
show  off  in  her  presence  after  the  manner  of  the 
male  animal  in  love.  He  cut  pigeon  wings,  figures  of 
eight,  beautiful  circles,  and  generally  arabesqued  the 
ice  with  intricate  evidences  of  his  talent.  In  the 
middle  of  his  performance  he  suddenly  threw  up  his 
hands,  shrieked  horribly,  and  fell  backward.  His 
fall  was  so  sudden  and  so  unexpected,  and  he  came 
down  with  such  fearful  force,  in  a  sort  of  collapse,  as 
it  were,  that  Molly's  laughter  which  had  instantly 
pealed  out  in  the  clear,  cold  air,  suddenly  stopped. 
She  struggled  to  her  feet  and  a  few  strokes  brought 
her  to  his  side. 

An  arrow  was  buried  to  the  feathers  in  his  right 
breast.  He  lay  on  his  back  with  an  expression  of 
mortal  agony  on  his  face,  blood  frothing  from  liis 
mouth.  He  was  fairly  digging  his  hands  and  heels 
into  the  ice. 

Molly  was  too  startled  and  too  terrified  to  scream. 
Staring  at  him  appalled  as  she  balanced  herself  on 
her  skates,  a  second  arrow  skipped  across  his  breast 
and  slid  along  the  ice.  The  woman  looked  up  at  that. 
On  the  bank  above  her  stood  three  Indians.  They  all 


She  stared  at  them  in  petrified 
astonishment. —  Page  309 


The  Matchmaker  309 

had  guns,  but  fearing  to  alarm  the  post  had  resorted 
to  the  silent,  swift  and  subtle  weapon  of  their  fore- 
fathers. She  stared  at  them  in  petrified  astonish- 
ment. Poor  Stevenson  saw  them  at  the  same  time. 
His  only  thought  was  for  her. 

"  Skate ! "  he  cried,  with  astonishing  energy. 
"For  your  life!" 

The  soldier  was  done  for.  He  knew  it  and  she 
knew  it.  There  was  no  way  in  which  Molly  could 
aid  him  by  remaining  there.  She  turned  instantly 
and  flew  up  the  pond  in  the  direction  of  the  fort,  a 
wild,  mad  terror  in  her  heart,  for  Molly  very  well 
knew  what  happened  to  women  who  were  captured 
by  Indians.  She  .had  never  skated  so  fast  before, 
but  her  efforts  were  vain.  The  Indians,  a  lurking 
war  party  of  adventurous  Sioux,  had  observed  the 
two  ever  since  they  had  left  the  fort,  and  had  laid 
their  plans  with  cunning  strategy.  As  she  swung 
under  the  trees  and  bent  toward  the  stockade,  a  wait- 
ing savage  sprang  upon  her.  As  she  opened  her 
mouth  to  scream  the  warrior  clapped  his  hand  over  it. 
She  bit  him  viciously,  whereupon  he  struck  her 
brutally  in  the  face,  threatening  her  with  a  ferocious 
gesture  a  moment  afterwards.  She  was  half  dazed 
from  the  blow  and  speechless  with  fright.  Then  he 
picked  her  up — she  was  a  little  body  and  he  was  a 
huge  man — and  ran  swiftly  over  the  ice  toward  the 
prostrate  soldier.  He  joined  his  comrades  there,  and 
after  a  few  necessary  details  with  poor  Stevenson — 
necessary  from  the  savage  point  of  view — the  party 
now  increased  to  some  half  dozen,  gagged  the  girl, 


310  The  Records 


dragged  her  up  the  slope,  mounted  her  on  a  pony 
and  off  they  galloped. 

They  had  need  of  speed.  It  was  already  beginning 
to  snow.  There  was  a  mass  of  black  cloud  in  the  west 
full  of  terrible  portent,  and  the  wind  came  sweeping- 
down  the  mountain  sides  with  threat  and  menace  in 
its  blasts. 

Jefferson  and  his  party  followed  the  footsteps  of 
the  two  runaways,  which  were  plainly  enough  visible 
in  the  snow,  until  they  came  to  the  trees  bordering 
the  river.  Halfway  down  the  bank  they  were  met 
by  .a  horrible  object.  Stevenson  had  been  stripped 
of  his  clothes  and  riddled  with  arrows.  His  scalp  had 
been  taken.  He  was  a  naked,  ghastly,  mutilated, 
figure;  yet  still  alive!  He  was  using  the  last  vestige 
of  his  strength  to  crawl  up  the  bank  to  give  the  alarm. 
They  could  follow  his  advance  by  the  blood  that  had 
poured  upon  the  snow  from  his  wounds. 

"  My  God !  Stevenson !  "  exclaimed  Jefferson,  as 
he  caught  sight  of  this  new  St.  Sebastian. 

Stevenson  had  been  crawling  slowly  along  the  path 
like  a  blind  puppy.  As  he  heard  the  voice  he  lifted 
his  head.  He  could  not  see,  he  could  scarcely  speak. 
His  consciousness  was  almost  gone.  Yet  there  was 
one  thing  to  be  done.  He  must  do  it.  Stevenson 
had  been  the  most  unruly  man  in  the  regiment,  as  the 
Colonel  had  said.  But  he  was  a  brave  man. 

"  Molly!  "  he  gasped.  "  The  Sioux — down  the 
creek — hurry!  " 

"  How  many?  "  asked  Jefferson  quickly. 

"  Six!  "  gasped  out  the  soldier. 


The  Matchmaker  311 

There  was  a  noise  of  breaking  sticks  as  Stevenson 
fell  forward  upon  the  arrow  shafts.  And  something 
else  broke  then  and  there  which  made  no  sound. 

"  Philips,"  said  Jefferson,  "  run  to  the  fort  and  re- 
port to  the  Colonel.  Tell  him  that  Molly  Clancy 
has  been  taken  prisoner  by  the  Indians,  and  that 
Stevenson  is  in  the  woods  dead.  The  rest  of  us  will 
stay  here  until  relieved.  There  may  be  more  of  the 
red  devils  about." 

Ill 

In  spite  of  himself  the  Colonel  had  awaited  Jef- 
ferson's report  with  deep  anxiety.  The  news  that  was 
brought  by  Trooper  Philips  was  felt  in  some  in- 
describable way  before  it  was  delivered.  The  officers 
had  assembled  at  the  Colonel's  headquarters  spon- 
taneously. They  all  heard  Philips'  report. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  the  Colonel  surveying  the 
little  group  who  crowded  forward  eagerly,  "  Mr. 
Gatchell,"  he  added,  addressing  one  of  the  older 
lieutenants. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Take  twenty-four  men " 

"  An'  me,  sor,  for  the  love  of  God !  "  cried  O'Brien, 
pressing  forward  from  the  background. 

It  was  very  unmilitary,  but  the  Colonel  passed  it 
over. 

"  O'Brien,  too,"  he  added,  "  and  follow  the  trail. 
I  wish  to  God  I  could  send  out  a  regiment,  but  I 
dare  not  let  more  than  that  number  leave  the  post." 

In  an  incredibly  short  time  the  twenty-four  men 


312  The  Records 


had  saddled  their  horses  and  were  on  the  parade, 
O'Brien  at  their  lead.  Gatchell  instantly  reported  to 
the  Colonel  that  he  was  ready. 

"  They  all  wanted  to  go,  sir,"  he  said.  "  It  was 
hard  to  refuse  them,  but  I  have  twenty-four  of  the 
best  men  in  the  fort." 

"  I  believe  so,"  said  the  Colonel,  scanning  with 
practiced  eye  the  erect,  soldierly,  eager  forms  before 
him.  "  You  will  pursue  the  hostiles  up  the  valley 
of  the  Big  Piney  until  you  reach  the  mountain  pass. 
On  no  account  go  farther  than  that.  Jefferson  re- 
ported that  Stevenson  said  there  were  only  six  In- 
dians. Should  you  find  a  greater  number,  you  will 
proceed  cautiously  and  send  back  a  report  to  me." 

"  Very  well,  sir,"  said  Gatchell  saluting. 

"  Bring  her  back,  if  you  can,"  said  the  Colonel. 
"  But  for  God's  sake,  don't  lose  your  men,  and  be- 
ware of  the  storm!  Have  you  a  compass?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Good-by." 

The  officer  shook  his  Colonel's  hand,  saluted, 
mounted  his  horse  and  the  troop  trotted  out  of  the 
parade  ground,  O'Brien,  lean,  sinewy,  furiously 
determined,  leading  the  line.  Spontaneously  the 
men  broke  into  cheers. 

"  Good  luck  to  you!  "  they  shouted.  "  Bring  her 
back.  We'd  like  to  go  along  with  you." 

Gatchell's  party  were  soon  lost  to  sight  in  the 
whirling  snow,  which  was  now  coming  down  hard. 
That  was  an  anxious  night  at  Fort  Grummond.  The 
wind  rose,  and  before  the  darkness  fell  a  blizzard  was 


The  Matchmaker  313 

raging  down  the  valley.  The  next  morning  at  day- 
break GatchelFs  party,  half  frozen,  almost  perished 
from  exhaustion,  drew  up  at  the  gate.  They  had  fol- 
lowed the  trail  until  they  had  lost  it  in  the  snow,  and 
then  at  a  venture  had  pushed  out  to  the  gap  in  the 
mountain,  which  the  Colonel  had  indicated  as  the 
limit  of  their  advance.  They  had  seen  nothing  of  the 
Indians,  and  Gatchell  had  been  forced  by  the  severe 
weather  conditions  to  endeavor  to  get  back  to  the 
post  lest  the  whole  party  be  frozen  to  death.  He 
iad  only  succeeded  in  reaching  it  after  incredible 
hardships,  and  when  he  had,  it  was  discovered  that 
O'Brien  was  missing. 

There  was  absolutely  nothing  that  the  Colonel  or 
anyone  else  could  do  until  the  storm  abated,  and  their 
helplessness  rendered  it  the  more  terrible  to  bear. 
All  thought  of  Christmas  festivity  was  abandoned. 
Outside  it  continued  to  blow  furiously,  and  the  snow 
still  came  whirling  down.  Everybody  kept  under 
cover  except  the  sentries  tramping  up  and  down  in 
their  great  buffalo  overcoats  and  fur  caps.  Every- 
body, that  is,  except  the  Colonel  and  his  Adjutant. 
The  Colonel  was  uneasy,  unusually  so.  Again  and 
again  he  inspected  the  stockade,  each  time  finding  the 
sentries  watchful  and  ready  at  their  posts.  Just 
about  noon  he  stopped  before  the  west  gate,  which 
looked  out  on  the  Bozeman  trail,  and  peered  into 
the  swirling  snow  as  if  he  would  fain  pierce  the 
obscurity  to  see  what  lay  beyond.  While  he  was  con- 
sidering, his  eager  ear  caught  the  faint  muffled  note 
of  a  bugle.  He  turned  to  the  sentry. 


314  The  Records 


"  Did  you  hear  that  ?  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  No,  sir,  I  didn't  hear  anything,  sir." 

"Listen!     There!     Again!     Don't  you  hear  it?" 

"  It's  a  bugle,  sir,"  cried  the  sentry.  "  Some- 
body is  out  there  and  wants  help." 

"  Call  the  guard." 

"  Sergeant  of  the  Guard!  "  shouted  the  soldier, 
but  his  voice  could  not  be  heard  in  the  storm. 

"  Give  me  your  carbine,"  said  the  Colonel,  "  I'll 
keep  your  post.  Send  the  officer  of  the  day  to  me. 
Bid  the  trumpeter  sound  '  Boots  and  Saddles ! ' 

In  a  few  moments  the  parade  was  alive  with  men 
and  horses  ready  for  anything  in  spite  of  the  storm. 
At  the  Colonel's  orders  the  bugler,  who  had  been 
summoned  to  his  side  at  the  gate,  lifted  his  bugle 
and  blew  "  Officers'  Call."  In  the  silence  that  fol- 
lowed the  familiar  notes  the  officers  who  had  gath- 
ered about  the  gate  intently  listened  for  a  reply. 
Sure  enough  muffled  and  faint  in  the  storm  they  de- 
tected a  response.  It  was  too  indistinct  for  them  to 
distinguish  what  it  was,  but  that  the  sound  came  from 
a  bugle  was  certain. 

"  There  is  something  out  there,"  said  the  Colonel, 
turning  to  the  group.  "  Captain  Brown?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Take  your  troop  out  in  the  direction  of  the 
sound.  Keep  in  touch  with  the  fort  so  as  not  to  lose 
your  way.  I  do  not  think  it  can  be  Indians  in  such  a 
blizzard  as  this,  but  I  don't  know.  Whoever  it  is 
can't  be  far  off,  for  the  sound  wouldn't  carry  any 
distance  in  this  howling  blizzard.  We'll  cover  you 


The  Matchmaker  315 

from  the  fort,  and  should  I  hear  any  firing  I'll  send 
out  half  of  the  remaining  troop." 

In  a  moment  Brown's  troop  were  staggering 
through  the  open  gate.  They  deployed  in  line,  tak- 
ing good  distance  to  cover  a  wide  stretch  of  country, 
and  slowly  advanced  down  the  hill  toward  the  valley, 
while  the  others  waited.  In  a  few  moments,  it 
seemed  hours,  the  watchers  at  the  gate  could  make 
out  the  snow-enshrouded  figures  of  the  cavalry  com- 
ing back.  They  stared  at  the  horses  and  men  plod- 
ding up  the  ascent  looming  gray  and  wraithlike  in 
the  midst  of  the  storm. 

"  There  have  been  no  shots,  sir,"  said  the  Adju- 
tant ;  "  they  cannot  have  had  any  trouble." 

"  No,"  said  the  Colonel. 

"  There  are  more  than  a  single  troop,"  suggested 
the  junior  Captain. 

"  Right,"  said  the  Colonel. 

In  a  few  moments  Captain  Brown  rode  up  to  the 
gate  in  advance  of  his  troop  and  dismounted.  Brush- 
ing the  snow  from  his  eyes,  with  his  gloved  hand  he 
saluted. 

"  I  have  to  report,  sir,  that  I  have  picked  up  a 
sergeant  and  three  troopers  of  E  Troop  from  Fort 
Bingham." 

"  Yes?  "  said  the  Colonel  interrogatively. 

"  They  were  escorting  the  Bishop,  who  came  over 
here  to  spend  Christmas  with  us  and " 

In  spite  of  his  soldierly  impassivity  and  immobility 
the  Colonel  started  forward. 

"  Did  they  see  anything  of " 


316  The  Records 


"  They've  got  her  with  them,"  said  Brown. 
"  They're  bringing  her  along.  I  hurried  ahead." 

"  Is " 

"  Well  and  unharmed,  sir." 

"And  O'Brien?" 

"  He's  with  them,  too." 

How  the  news  got  back  from  the  officers  to  the 
men  nobody  ever  knew;  nobody  ever  inquired,  that 
is,  but  however  that  might  be,  it  reached  the  men 
almost  as  soon  as  it  reached  the  Colonel  himself. 
Such  a  cheer  went  up  from  the  troopers  standing  by 
their  horses  on  the  parade,  as  the  Bishop  and  O'Brien 
dismounted  from  their  horses  and  half  carried,  half 
led  a  drooping  figure — Molly  Clancy — through  the 
gate,  as  sufficed  for  a  moment  to  drown  even  the 
deeper  diapason  of  the  storm. 

IV 

The  gates  were  closed,  the  troopers  dismounted, 
the  horses  stabled,  the  officers  with  the  Bishop,  Molly 
Clancy  and  Sergeant  O'Brien,  were  gathered  in  the 
big  hall  of  the  Colonel's  quarters. 

"  IsTow,"  said  the  Colonel  very  sternly,  "  Molly, 
what  happened  to  you?  " 

"  Ef  ye  plaze,  sor,"  said  Molly,  "  af ther  they  killed 
poor  Misther  Stavenson " 

"  Trooper  Stevenson,"  corrected  the  Colonel. 

"  Yis,  sor.  They  tuk  me  an'  beyant  tyin'  me  tight 
they  didn't  ha'rm  me.  They  put  me  on  a  pony  an' 
we  galloped  down  the  valley.  I  was  that  skeered 


The  Matchmaker  317 

I  thought  I'd  die  of  fright,  sor;  but  I  kep'  me  eyes 
open,  an'  I  knowed  we  was  a'headin'  fer  the  gap.  Ef 
they  got  bey  ant  that  I  was  lost ;  I  was  prayin',  sor,  to 
the  Blessed  Virgin  Mary,  an'  all  the  ither  saints  all 
the  time.  Yer  right  riverence  knows  how  't  would 
be?  "  She  turned  to  the  Bishop. 

The  little  Bishop  didn't  pray  in  that  way,  but 
he  nodded  his  head  in  full  comprehension  and 
sympathy. 

"  An'  sure  an'  they  heard  me,"  continued  Molly, 
"  fer  the  wind  growed  stronger  an'  stronger,  an' 
the  snow  came  down  thicker  an'  thicker.  I  couldn't 
see  nuthin',  an'  thim  Injuns  was  lost." 

"  I  guess  not,"  said  the  Colonel. 

"  Yis,  sor,  they  was.  The  snow  w'irled  so  that 
it  covered  the  tracks  an'  we  didn't  lave  no  trail. 
We  crouched  down  behint  some  rocks  at  last,  an' 
we  saw  the  sogers  stagger  by  us  goin'  back  to  the 
fort." 

"  That  was  Gatchell's  party,"  said  the  Colonel 
to  the  Bishop.  "  Why  didn't  you  call  out,  Molly?  " 

"  Sure,  sor,  I  was  that  gagged  I  was  spacheless; 
but  1  could  see  well  enough,  an'  I  was  lukin'  for 
Michael  here,  an'  he  wasn't  there." 

"  Where  were  you,  O'Brien? "  asked  the  Colonel 
sternly. 

"  I — er — sor,  I  lost  the  party  at  the  pass,  sor," 
faltered  poor  O'Brien. 

"  Um!  "  said  the  Colonel.  "  You  didn't  try  very 
hard  to  find  them,  did  you?  " 

"  Sor,"  said  O'Brien,  "  I  was  a  lukin'  fer  Molly, 


318  The  Records 


an'  ye  know  they  say  a  mon  can't  luk  fer  two  things 
at  onct,  sor." 

"  Well,  did  you  find  her?  " 

"  I  did,  sor.  I  knowed  thim  red  divils  had  to 
cut  through  that  pass,  an'  w'ile  it  wasn't  right  to 
risk  the  lives  of  half  a  troop,  sor,  yet  one  sargeant 
more  or  less  wouldn't  make  no  difference  to  Uncle 
Sam,  sor.  So  I  hid  meself  there,  an'  by  an'  by,  sure 
enough,  along  they  kim.  I  got  wan  wid  me  carbine, 
then  the  ejactor  wint  wrong,  an'  I  sprung  into  thim 
divils  wid  the  butt,  sor." 

"Oh,  you  did,  eh?"  asked  the  Colonel,  his  eyes 
twinkling.  "  "What  happened  then?  " 

"  Then  they  fell  on  me  like  the  starrum  itself." 

"  Oh,  Colonel,  sor,  if  ye  could  have  seen  him !  " 
cried  Molly.  "  There  was  six  of  thim,  barrin'  the 
wan  he  shot  an'  the  wan  he  had  knocked  sinseless 
with  the  butt  of  his  carbine,  but  the  other  four  lept 
at  him.  He  backed  up  agin  the  wall  of  the  pass 
an'  fit  like  a  tager." 

"  'Twas  fer  you,  me  darlint !  "  interrupted 
O'Briem. 

"  Cut  that!  "  said  the  Colonel  sternly. 

"  Yis,  sor,"  replied  the  Sergeant  much  abashed. 

"  Then  what  happened?  " 

"  Then  the  Bishop's  party  cum  along,  sor,  an' 
only  wan  of  thim  got  away  alive.  I  mane  the  In- 
juns, sor.  An',  sor,"  went  on  the  Sergeant,  made 
bold  by  Molly's  pretty  eyes  and  the  Colonel's  ap- 
proving glance,  "  ef  I  do  say  it  myself,  sor,  of  his 
Right  Kiverence  there,  I  never  seed  a  little  mon 


The  Matchmaker  319 

fit  harder  than  he  did,  sor.  W'y  he  jist  plunged 
into  the  middle  of  thim  red  divils,  got  hold  of  wan 
mon  that  was  much  bigger  than  he  wor  by  a  fut 
an'  a  half,  sor  " — the  Bishop  was  a  tiny  man — "  an' 
he  hit  him  a  belt  in  the  jaw,  sor,  that  jist  laid  him 
out.  For  a  mon  of  pace " 

The  room  was  in  an  uproar  of  laughter  now. 
The  Bishop  flushed  and  looked  very  much  annoyed. 

"  How  is  this,  Bishop?  "  asked  the  Colonel. 

"  Well,"  said  the  Bishop,  "  I — I  am  afraid  that, 
carried  away  by  the  excitement  of  the  moment,  I 
— we  burst  upon  them  suddenly  as  we  came  around 
the  cliff  and  saw  the  Sergeant  fighting  and  Molly  ly- 
ing in  the  snow  and  screaming  like  mad — I — er — 
possibly.  I  forgot  myself — er — temporarily." 

"  And  it's  Christmas-tide,  too!  "  said  the  Colonel 
reprovingly,  yet  with  a  merry  twinkle  in  his  eye. 
"  A  day  of  peace  and  good  will.  I'm  surprised, 
Bishop!" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Bishop,  "  I  remembered  that  it 
was,  but — er — unfortunately  too  late." 

"  Well,  about  the  Indians,  O'Brien?  You  say  one 
got  away? " 

"  Well,  sor,  we're  not  sure  about  that,"  answered 
the  Sergeant ;  "  the  Bishop's  escort  counted  f er  three 
of  thim  wid  their  carbines;  I  sittled  two,  an'  the 
wan  the  Eight  Kiverend  hit,  he  fell  over  the  cliff, 
an' — we've  heard  nuthin'  of  him  sence." 

"  I  hope — I  hope  he  got  away,"  said  the  Bishop. 
"  I  am  sure  I  didn't  hit  him  very  hard." 

"  Oh,  I  guess  he's  all  right,"  said  the  Colonel  sig 
nificantly.  "  What  then,  O'Brien?  " 


320  The  Records 


"  We  camped  fer  the  night,  sor,  an'  come  on  in 
the  mornin'  blowin'  the  bugle  calls,  hopin'  you  would 
hear  us,  an' — that's  all,  sor." 

"  Now,"  said  the  Colonel,  turning  to  the  two 
culprits,  "  what  am  I  to  do  with  you?  O'Brien,  you 
left  your  command  under  most  reprehensible  circum- 
stances. I  ought  to  break  you,  reduce  you  to  the 
ranks.  Molly,  you  disobeyed  my  orders,  you  and 
Stevenson.  He's  paid  his  penalty.  What  about 
you?  Besides  that,  you've  almost  disorganized  the 
post.  What  am  I  to  do  with  you? " 

Molly  put  the  back  of  her  hand  up  to  her  eyes 
and  began  to  cry.  O'Brien  stood  very  straight  at 
attention  before  his  Colonel,  looking  and  feeling 
very  uncomfortable. 

"  May  I  suggest,  Colonel,"  said  the  Bishop  with 
considerable  diffidence,  being  a  man  of  authority 
with  others  under  him,  he  knew  it  was  not  well  to 
interfere  in  disciplinary  matters,  "  that  they  have 
been  punished  sufficiently  as  it  is — and — er " 

"  I  see,"  said  the  Colonel.  "  Molly,  will  you,  if 
I  forgive  you  this  time,  do  exactly  as  I  say  now 
and  forever  after? " 

"  Yis,  sor,"  sobbed  Molly. 

"  O'Brien,  have  you  come  sufficiently  to  your 
senses  to  know  that  obedience  is  the  first  duty  of 
a  soldier,  no  matter  what  happens?" 

"  Yis,  sor." 

"Well,  then,  attention  to  orders!  My  punish- 
ment for  the  both  of  you  is  that  you  shall  get 
married  at  once." 


The  Matchmaker  321 

"  Yis,  sor,"  said  O'Brien,  a  smile  illuminating  his 
face. 

"  Married? "  screamed  Molly  Clancy  suddenly 
"  w'y  I— 

"  Miss  Clancy,"  said  the  Colonel  sternly,  "  this 
post  is  under  military  rule,  and  even  the — er — fe- 
males are  subject  to  my  orders.  You  will  marry 
Sergeant  O'Brien  to-day  or  you  will  spend  Christ- 
mas in  the  guard  house." 

Molly  gaped  open-mouthed  at  the  Colonel. 

"  If  the  Colonel  plazes,  sor,"  burst  out  O'Brien 
timorously,  "  I  don't  want  Molly  to  be  forced." 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,  Mike,"  said  Molly  suddenly 
blushing  furiously,  "  as  betwane  you  an'  the  guard 
house — Oh,  Mike,"  speaking  softly  and  stepping 
nearer  to  him,  "  I  want  you  to  marry  me.  Col- 
onel, I'll  obey  all  orders  from  you  or  from  the 
Sargeant  here." 

"  Good !  "  said  the  Colonel.  "  Here's  a  marriage" 
that  begins  beautifully.  We'll  have  the  wedding 
at  the  Christmas  tree  this  afternoon,  if  the  Bishop 
is  ready." 

"  I  am  ready,"  said  the  little  man,  "  and  I  con- 
gratulate you,  Colonel,  upon  your  judgment  in  this 
difficult  case.  It  is  worthy  of  Solomon." 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  I  would  make  that  match  all 
right?  "  said  the  Colonel  to  his  wife  that  night. 

"  Anybody  could  make  a  match  with  the  assist- 
ance of  a  war  party  and  a  blizzard,"  returned  that 
lady  scornfully.  "  Especially  if  they  both  wanted 
to  get  married  as  badly  as  those  two." 


WHAT  THE  CRITICS  SAY    OF 

The  Corner  in  Coffee 

By  Cyrus  Townsend  Brady 

"  Let  us  advise  that  the  book  be  purchased  and  read.  It  is  worth 
while." — Norfolk  Dispatch. 

"  The  romance  sparkles  with  wit  and  humor,  and  abounds  with 
refreshing  satire.  The  delineation  of  the  characteristics  of  the  typical 
personages  of  the  story — such  people  as  are  met  with  every  day  in  New 
York — is  exceptionally  accurate  and  clever.  In  addition  to  being  an 
exciting  story  of  '  the  street,'  the  book  contains  a  delightful  love  story, 
although  the  hero  is  fifty  and  the  heroine  thirty-five." — The  Nashville 
American. 

"  As  a  good  spirited  love  story  with  lots  of  human  nature  in  it  and 
some  delightful  characters,  the  story  is  entertaining,  and  marks  by  far 
the  best  the  author  has  accomplished  in  fiction.  The  reader  gets  all 
that  is  coming  to  him  in  the  pleasure  of  reading  it,  and  that  is  worth 
the  money." — Philadelphia  Inquirer. 

"  Mr.  Brady  never  wrote  a  story  that  could  be  called  dull  ;  but  for 
a  thoroughly  amusing  tale,  one  which  the  reader  cannot  think  of  laying 
aside  until  he  is  finished,  '  The  Corner  in  Coffee '  leads  them  all." — Bos- 
ton Transcript. 

"  Everyone  who  enjoys  a  rattling  yarn  with  plenty  of  comedy 
and  just  a  dash  of  tragedy,  will  revel  in  this  amusing  book." — Phila- 
delphia Item. 

"  No  less  than  fourteen  applications  for  the  dramatic  rights  were 
made  to  the  author.  The  play  has  been  completed  and  will  be  staged  in 
the  near  future.  In  the  language  of  its  chief  character,  it  is  a  '  cracker 
jack  '  story  and  a  marked  departure  from  Mr.  Brady's  usual  style." — 
Cleveland  Daily  World. 

"  If  the  dramatization  catches  the  crispness,  the  spontaineity  and 
the  pathos  of  the  novel,  it  might  prove  a  great  success.  Mr.  Brady  has 
produced  live  people,  live  love  making,  and  live  finance,  '  The  Corner 
in  Coffee  '  is  the  brightest  novel  to  his  record." — Brooklyn  Daily  Eagle. 

"Many  of  the  scenes  are  strongly  dramatic,  and  a  capital  play 
ought  to  result  from  the  dramatization  of  the  book,  which  is  to  be  one 
of  next  season's  plays.  '  The  Corner  in  Coffee '  is  very  well  written  and 
the  portrayal  of  character  is  exceedingly  felicitous." — The  Philadelphia 
Press. 

"  The  situations  are  dramatic,  the  courtship  is  unique,  and  the  tale 
is  told  inimitably  with  a  crispness  that  is  positively  refreshing,  and  a 
sparkling  humor." — Albany  Times- Union. 

"It  is  full  of  dramatic  and  interesting  situations,  and  has  plenty 
of  breadth  and  swing." — St.  Louis  World. 

I2mo,  Cloih  Bound,  Illustrated.    $1.50 

G.  W.  DILLINGHAM  COMPANY,  Publishers 


WHAT    THE    CRITICS    SAY    OF 


Sir  Henry  Morgan — Buccaneer 

By  CYRUS   TOWNSEND   BRADY 


The  New  York  Tribune  says — and  it  is  true — that  "Mr.  Brady  is 
fond  of  dashing  themes  and  certainly  here  he  has  found  a  subject  to  suit 
his  most  exacting  mood.  He  has  taken  a  rascal  for  the  hero  of  his 
picaresque  and  rattling  romance.  The  author  is  lavish  in  incident  and 
handles  one  thrilling  situation  after  another  with  due  sense  of  all  the 
dramatic  force  that  is  to  be  got  out  of  it.  His  description  of  the  last 
moments  of  the  old  pirate  is  one  of  the  most  effective  pieces  of  writing 
he  has  put  to  his  credit.  SIR  HENRY  MORGAN-BUCCANEER  is  an 
absorbing  story." 

"Cyrus  Townsend  Brady  has  had  the  hardihood  to  set  aside  the 
romantic  pirate  of  fictional  tradition  and  paint  a  genuine  historic  pirate; 
lustful,  murderous,  brutal,  relentless.  The  story  has  force  and  dramatic 
interest." — The  Lamp* 

"  Mr.  Brady  has  never  before  been  so  successful  in  creating  a 
character  who  so  completely  fills  the  scene.  Morgan  dominates  the 
book  from  the  first  line  to  the  last." — Philadelphia  Item. 

"  The  story  is  a  fascinating  one — a  concentration  of  all  the  pirate 
stories  that  ever  were  written." — Rochester  Herald. 

"  Mr.  Brady  has  a  graphic  and  realistic  power  of  description.  The 
novel  is  full  measure  and  running  over  with  thrills." — Brooklyn  Eagle. 

"  A  thrilling  pirate  story,  a  lively  romance  sufficiently  sensational 
yet  not  lacking  in  delicacy." — Boston  Transcript. 

"  The  story  is  full  of  incident  and  has  an  appropriate  measure  of 
love  and  sword  play." — N.  Y.  Times. 

"  It  is  as  rakish  and  dashing  a  craft  on  seas  literary  as  any  of  the 
hero's  black-flagged  ships  on  seas  actual." — N.  Y.  World. 

"There  is  'hot  stuff"  in  SIR  HENRY  MORGAN-BUCCANEER." — 
N.  Y.  Evening  Sun. 

"The  interest  of  the  action,  pitched  high  in  the  beginning,  is  held 
to  the  point  of  utmost  tension  throughout." — St.  Louis  Star. 


Profusely  and  beautifully  illustrated  from  paintings  by  J.  N.  Marchand 
and  drawings   by   Will  Crawford.        Cloth-bound,   $1.50. 

Sold  Every  where.'or  Sent  Postpaid  Free  on  Receipt  of  Price. 

G.  W.  DILLINGHAM  CO.,  Publishers,  NEW  YORK 


